The Fortunate Mistress
by hungry-student
Summary: The Armada wins and the pirates are scattered. Floating among the debris of the final battle, Lord Beckett finds Elizabeth Swann... M-rated - Beckabeth.
1. Erotica

**Disclaimer -** I own nothing, no infringement intended therefore please do not sue! I haven't a penny to give you :( Unless you want to take control of a very large student overdraft - woe!

**Comments -** I've been trying out these little ditties over at live journal for some time nowand have been having so much fun posting them, I thought I'd bring them over here :) There's nothing much to explain really, just a series of almost-one shots surrounding Beckett and Lizzie set after At World's End. All you really need to know is that the Armada won, the pirates have been scattered, Will died... (oh dear) and Lord Beckett found Elizabeth floating among the debris and took the opportunity to go and marry her. Just good business and all that... ;) Enjoy!

**The Fortunate Mistress - Part I**

Elizabeth bit her lip as her eyes skimmed eagerly across each worn and weathered page. Her eyes were wide, unwilling to blink in case they missed merely a single word of the erotic text she held in her cold hands. Her breathing was shallow and the first signs of molten desire were pooling between her thighs – aching from her clandestine activity.

She found herself bored during the day. Lord Beckett would disappear early in the morning on business, or would spend hours holed up in his private study reading and signing papers Elizabeth wasn't allowed to touch nor see and therefore she had to find ways to amuse herself when he wasn't around. Not that his company was that amusing anyway. However the one good thing she found from being locked up in her own house was that she had access to all her old belongings.

…and secrets.

She'd come across the book when she was barely fifteen. She'd heard the feminine sniggers of the maids one afternoon when she'd wandered down to the kitchen to get a snack. They'd all jumped and gasped, hiding the book in one of the kitchen drawers before getting back down to work. Elizabeth had been curious and gone back to fetch the book when there was no one around. The first time she read it she was horrified and disgusted - yet couldn't put it down, the second time she was amazed and curious, the third time and every time after that curled up in bed after the whole house had gone to sleep – she found herself sighing along to every word and imagining herself into the shoes of the feisty heroine lost between the pages.

She'd hidden the book under her mattress and had even managed to replace the cover – concealing the wicked prose behind a dull jacket advertising the History of the British Isles. No one would suspect a thing!

Elizabeth barely heard the sigh escape her lips as she reached her favourite page, the corner folded down delicately for future reference. She was lost and wrapped up in a world where everything was perfect and love existed. She also barely heard the door to the library click open, the sound of her husband returning from work. She flinched in her seat, lifting the book to her chest and peering across the room towards the doorway where Lord Beckett stood staring at her with an expressionless face. She didn't like that look, so unpredictable and unreadable – she never knew what was coming next. She rolled her eyes before continuing with her book, flooding her mind with words dripping scarlet.

"Oh it's you." She sighed sarcastically.  
"Still continuing your study into the history of our realm?" Beckett asked dryly as he walked across to the liquor cabinet beside Elizabeth, grabbing a bottle of port and pouring it into a small glass.  
"Mmm…yes." Elizabeth hummed, unable to lift her eyes from the delicious paragraphs of bawdy literature. "I find it fascinating…"  
"Why don't you read some of it to me?" Beckett asked as he sank into the easy chair directly opposite his wife – lifting the glass of port to his gently curled lips.  
"What?" Elizabeth blinked, looking up at him – the blood draining from her face.  
"Why not?" Beckett said, leaning back in his chair comfortably, "A husband should take interest in his wife's fascinations, don't you think? Tell me about the Spanish Armada."

Elizabeth glared at him and swallowed hard – he was staring back at her intensely, his eyes cold and the corner of his mouth quirked into a subtle, knowing smirk. He couldn't possibly know, could he? She thought to herself as she tightened her grip on the book and lifted it an inch closer to her face. She wasn't afraid of her husband, but at the same time – didn't dare contemplate what might happen if he knew about her secret book. So she took a deep breath, cleared her throat and attempted to lie. The only trouble was – Elizabeth had never been good at history, the subject had always bored her.

"Umm." She frowned, pretending to flick back to find the 'appropriate' page, she mentally kicked herself for being so bold – she could feel her cheeks flushing hot red. "The Spanish Armada. During the reign of Elizabeth the first... um, the Spanish King…" Oh damn, what was his name? "Charles the second, sent a great armada of ships to the English coast in 15…" Elizabeth hesitated, "15…78…"

Beckett listened with an amused grin as he watched his wife painfully pretend to create an historical account out of thin air. He'd watched her on several occasions flicking avidly through the weathered pages of that book and noticed how her face flushed, how her plump bottom lip was always trapped between her teeth and how her breathing always became deep and heavy. He knew no woman, even the feisty and bright Elizabeth Swann would ever read reference books of the sort with such an excited glow. He raised his eyebrows as she continued – wondering whether to stop her or continue to listen and amuse himself further with her stubbornness.

"Interesting." He said, as he got up to pour another glass of port for himself. "Who is the author of this account?" he asked, a smirk gliding across his lips as he paced in front of his wife.  
"Francis Harlow…" Elizabeth replied, her finger saving her page as she glanced at the stolen cover.  
"Very interesting indeed." Beckett said to himself. Elizabeth frowned,  
"Why?" she asked, blinking up at him as he stopped to face her.  
"Francis Harlow died before Elizabeth the first ascended the English throne." He said, his voice thick and lazily arrogant. "No wonder he had no clue to the name of the Spanish king nor the date of the Armada…which was, by the way, in 1588."

Elizabeth stared up at him with wide eyes and a fierce blush as he stood over her with a subtle, knowing smirk. She felt naked and helpless – as she often did in front of him. He had a way of tricking her, unbinding her till she was naked and exposed without the means to help herself. She watched as he held out his hand to her, silently requesting the book. A helpless sigh escaped her lips as she handed it over – like a sulking child who'd been caught doing something they shouldn't. He stared at her darkly as he ripped off the stolen book jacket and threw it to the floor before reading the real book cover.

"Roxana: The Fortunate Mistress…" he read loudly, "Ah yes… I've heard of this."

Elizabeth mentally slapped herself as she felt her cheeks glowing hot from embarrassment, especially when Lord Beckett opened the book onto her favourite page. She blushed harder when he began to read out loud even her favourite passage, the one where the text had become blurred and smudged.

"…my ragged breaths grew deeper as the laces of my stays grew looser and looser. He opened the top half with animal hunger and slipped his cold hand inside to fondle a swollen breast, which throbbed beneath his hand as he cupped it." He read clearly, his voice pronouncing every scarlet word perfectly and without hesitation.

Elizabeth, through her embarrassment, couldn't help but listen as her husband read the purple passage from her secret book. The sound of his lazy, deep drone reading every explicit sentence and word was bizarrely erotic. She shifted her weight uncomfortably in her chair – the aching coil between her thighs growing tighter and more desperate for an explosive, satisfying release.

"…he pushed me roughly down onto the mahogany desk of his study, hungry to possess – to ravish me till I could barely walk…"

Beckett, lifted his eyes from the book and stared directly at his wife as he dictated the final sentence, his eyes for once not cold – but resembling a blazing fire, Elizabeth blushed. She stared up at him with wide eyes – she didn't quite know nor understand how he might react, what he planned on doing next. She flinched when he suddenly shut the book in one hand with snap, and walked towards her slowly.

"Some interesting reading material…" Beckett said before finishing his glass of port and setting the empty glass down on the cabinet surface beside Elizabeth. "Tell me, are you that unsatisfied and lonely in your new role that you feel you must resort to trite masturbatory aides such as this?" he questioned, holding the book up in one hand.  
"Ha!" Elizabeth scoffed, daring to laugh at him, "'Unsatisfied' is an understatement… I'm being kept prisoner in my own house!"  
"For perfectly good reasons.." Beckett interrupted. Elizabeth frowned and decided to continue with her speech rather than address those 'good reasons' as to why she was under house arrest,  
"…I'm not allowed to leave, go out, or see anyone – I'm alone most of the day…"  
"My heart bleeds." Beckett replied sarcastically with a bored sigh as he delicately raised his eyebrows.

Elizabeth groaned and rolled her eyes – sick of his arrogant attitude towards her. She'd had enough of the one way, pointless conversations that would ultimately always end in her own embarrassment – and so she rose passionately, intending to storm out of the room. But not without her book. She moved her hand to snatch it from him, but he refused her.

"Ah!" He warned, holding the book away from her. "I think I'll keep hold of this if you don't mind sweet."

Elizabeth gave him her most venomous glare – though it never seemed to do much good. Her husband's composure never faltered – his eyes always remaining cold and devoid of concern. She exhaled an angry grunt, before storming out – the door slamming loudly behind her.

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**More soon - :)**


	2. Oral

**Disclaimer -** I own nothing, no infringement intended therefore please do not sue! I haven't a penny to give you :( Unless you want to take control of a very large student overdraft - woe!

**Comments -** Much thanks to those who reviewed - I thought I'd update part two just because the first two of these one shots are linked :)Basically, Elizabeth is summoned to Lord Beckett's study over a certain book... Kinky prose ahead... you have been warned, if beckabeth isn't your cup of tea then best look away. :)

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part II**

"His Lordship requests your presence madam." Came the maid's voice from somewhere within the space of the dark bedroom.

Elizabeth frowned from behind her Japanese dressing screen. _What could he possibly want at this time of night?_ She thought, rolling her eyes tiredly. She hadn't seen him since earlier that day when he'd confiscated her favourite book from her – treating her like a child. She was still angry – and felt her blood boil just thinking about the way he'd treated her! She was tired of being his prisoner.

"Ugh. Tell him I'm asleep." Elizabeth said as she shrugged out of her ivory day gown – standing only in her stays, underwear and stockings.

She threw it over the top of the screen – happy to be rid of it. She thought she'd seen the end of uncomfortable clothing when she'd left Port Royal on the Edinburgh Trader all those months ago – on her quest to find Will. The same night she'd snuck into EITC offices, stolen the letters of marque and come face to face with her future husband. Ha! If she'd known things would turn out the way they had – she would fired that gun right into his smug face. Sure she would have been a wanted murderer as well as a wanted pirate, but at least she wouldn't have found herself at the mercy of her father's murderer. One who insisted that his wife should act and look like a lady, and that meant no breeches and boots. The end of _comfortable_ clothing.

"He was quite insistent madam." The maid continued.

Elizabeth groaned as she pulled on her green silk dressing gown , deciding that if she didn't go and see him, she wouldn't hear the end of it. Besides, the sooner she went, the sooner she could come back and go to bed, and maybe if she was asleep before he came to join her in bed he wouldn't expect her to oblige him – she thought hopefully. She didn't bother to get dressed, she thought he might find it tasteless for his wife to be walking around the house in a state of undress – and that's what made her less enthusiastic to get dressed. She wanted to frustrate and irritate him – it was one of the only things that amused her these days. She prayed that maybe one day he'd finally have enough and let her go.

Even though the maid hadn't told her where her husband was, it didn't take much thought to realise where he might be. He was always in his private study late at night – perusing papers over a large glass of brandy and even sometimes enjoying some tobacco. Elizabeth had never actually been inside his study during the hours he spent there late at night – but he always came to bed with the smell of brandy on his breath and the musky scent of tobacco clinging to his skin. She always told him she hated the smell, but secretly she liked the strange aroma – especially the place where it clung most, in the hollow of his neck. Of course it didn't mean she liked the man…

When Elizabeth reached Beckett's study, she hesitated and quietly knocked the large double doors that led into the dark depths of her husbands world. She hadn't been in there more than a few times since her marriage and since it had been completely redecorated from being her father's private study.

"Come in." came a voice from behind the doors.

Elizabeth opened them and stepped boldly inside – the room was barely recognisable from what it had been when it had belonged to her father. His memory had been completely erased. At the end of the room in front of dark windows was a large mahogany desk with carefully organised papers placed in piles across it, a small candelabra kept the desk area well lit – and yet left the rest of the room in a dull glow. There was a golden glass of brandy and the faint smell of smoky tobacco in the air, and behind the desk sat his arrogant lordship – dwarfed almost, by the large leather chair he sat in. He didn't look up when Elizabeth entered the room, his face – lit up by the candelabra, was lost in some sort of paperwork as he signed and scribbled with a delicate white quill. On the edge of the desk she noticed the worn leather bindings of her secret book and bit her lip anxiously.

"Yes?" he said – still not looking at her.

"You sent for me." Elizabeth snapped, angry she'd been summoned for seemingly nothing.

It must have been the tone of her voice that struck him; because he instantly looked up, placing the quill in the inkwell before lifting his cold gaze to his wife standing in the darkness of the room. His emotionless eyes glided down across her figure and what felt like each seam and stitch of the green dressing gown before returning up to her angry and stubborn eyes as an afterthought. He lifted his right hand to her, crooking his index and middle finger quickly – asking her without words to step closer. Even sitting, he had a talent for seeming as if he was looking down at you from thirty feet high. A giant, who could destroy you with one sadistic step of his shiny black boot.

"No thank you." Elizabeth replied, narrowing her eyes and folding her arms across her chest obstinately.

"Come now Elizabeth, ladies don't lurk in doorways." He said as he dipped the quill in the ink well once more and went back to his work – Elizabeth rolled her eyes and took a petulantly emphasised step toward the desk.

"I'd be grateful if you could just tell me why you dragged me here – so I can return to bed." She said through gritted teeth, adding a sarcastic _'my lord'_ to the end of the sentence.

"Remove your dressing gown." He replied, his expression blank.

"What?" Elizabeth blinked, her lips parting in silent shock – _surely he didn't expect…?_

"Your dressing gown, Elizabeth." Beckett said dryly, before looking up at her expectedly, "…remove it."

He stared at her with a smirk so subtle it was barely there, and waited for her to comply. He leaned over the desk, peering at her with his hands outstretched – fingers intertwined with one another as if he were waiting for some sort of show. Elizabeth widened her eyes in horror at his request, coming so out of the blue. She was used to the late nights where he'd come into her room and take his half of the arrangement – seducing her till there was nothing left of her to take or possess. But this was different.

"I want you to read to me." Beckett continued before Elizabeth could utter a single word in outrage.

She watched as he glanced from her anxious eyes to the book resting on the desk in front of him – _her book_, the one he'd caught her with. He placed his hand on it delicately, and pushed it forwards, towards the edge of the desk. She stared at him with a half perplexed, half worried frown and detected the hint of a smirk across his lips. He was daring her, she realised. Daring her to do as she was told. He expected her to complain and complain until he had to force her to do what she was told, break her till she had nothing left to herself. Elizabeth decided he wouldn't win, she wouldn't let him. Perhaps if she didn't protest, he'd grow tired – miss the control. So, she proudly lifted her chin to the ceiling and slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders – feeling it graze coolly across her silky skin before falling into a puddle around her delicate ankles.

His eyes widened momentarily yet still remained tepid, he exhaled a sharp breath that was almost a laugh and then lazily took a visual stroll from her stockings to her stays. Inside Elizabeth recoiled from his intimate gaze – but tried her best to remain silent. She stepped forward and grabbed the book from the edge momentarily hesitating, wondering where she was expected to sit and to read from – but before she visibly panicked, Beckett had stood up and stepped aside, offering her his chair. She could feel the warm leather of the chair as she glared at it, the thought of sitting where he'd sat comfortably ruining people's lives for hours made her strangely angry.

"I'd rather stand thank you." She frowned, turning her back to him and leaning against the desk – the cold wood flush with the top of her bare thighs.

"Suit yourself…Begin at the bookmarked page." He said from behind, as he walked casually to the double doors and turned the key in the lock, pocketing it – locking the doors and everyone out who might disturb them.

Elizabeth cracked the spine until she stopped at a red velvet bookmark. Funny, she thought, she never used bookmarks – she always just folded down pages, something her father had always hated! She blushed suddenly, it could mean only one thing – Beckett must have read some of the book during the day.

"Chapter V." she read, before pausing slightly – she knew it well, this was the chapter where Roxana met the French prince and became his mistress. It was her favourite chapter, and the most graphic. "When he sent away his gentleman I stood up and offered to wait on His Highness while he ate, but he positively refused, and told me 'No; tomorrow you shall be the widow of the jeweller, but tonight you shall be my mistress; therefore sit here,' says he, 'and eat with me, or I will get up and serve.'"

Elizabeth glanced up from the book every so often, watching Beckett confusedly as he wandered around the room, picking up dust on his finger as he inspected surfaces lazily, tidying books and looking out of the window every so often. She paused and frowned at his back – wondering what on earth the point of this reading session was, but when he turned around and caught her bewildered eyes she coughed and looked back down at the book.

"I took this time to undress me and to come in a new dress, which was in a manner un…un…" She frowned, hesitating over a French word.

"Un déshabillé." Beckett corrected. _Oh God – he has read it_, Elizabeth blushed before continuing reluctantly.

"Un déshabillé, but so fine, and all about me so clean and so agreeable, that he seemed surprised. 'I thought,' says he, 'you could not have dressed to more advantage than you had done before; but now,' he continued, 'you charm me a thousand times more, if that is possible.' 'It is only a loose habit, my lord,' said I, 'that I may the better wait on Your Highness.' He pulled me to him. 'You are perfectly obliging,' says he; and sitting on the bedside says, 'Now you shall be a princess and know what it is to oblige the gratefullest man alive.' And with that he took me into his arms and…"

Elizabeth stopped, her eyes skimming quickly over the next passage – knowing full well it was the most graphic part of the whole book. She couldn't believe she was reading her secret book aloud. She'd kept it hidden so well for so long, and yet she should have known nothing ever seemed to get past her husband. He knew everything about everyone; everything from their darkest secrets and weaknesses, to what they desired most in the world. He glanced over at her, realizing she'd stopped and stopped to stand in front of her – so close it was threatening. He knew exactly how to terrorize someone with only his presence. She swallowed, a dry click in her throat – she couldn't do it.

"Go on." He said, looking into her eyes over the top of the book – his voice low.

"I'd rather not." Elizabeth begged, shaking her head as she lowered the book to her lap – her lips were parted, her eyes wide and fearful.

He glared at her – his eyes firm and frightening, a silent warning. Elizabeth snapped her mouth shut and lifted the book back up to her eye level, pushing herself, reading every single word of the purple prose and trying her hardest not to stutter over the truly graphic parts, words that made her blush hard for saying them aloud. Her hands were shaking as she read on, her mouth dry, her palms sweaty and her stomach flipping somersaults with each innuendo and dirty metaphor that passed through her trembling lips. She held the book right in front of her face, knowing he stood right in front of her and would take satisfaction in seeing her expressions as she read. She felt him step closer suddenly, his feet stepping in-between hers.

"Good." He whispered lowly, an encouragement.

She continued slowly, steadily – determined to emerge from the mortifying situation unscathed. But he wouldn't allow her the security of hiding behind the book and lifted his right hand – using two fingers to tease it lower, slowly revealing her golden face, wide eyes and full lips. She hesitated a moment, her eyebrows twitching as he stared at her – his eyes hovering lazily over her lips as she stuttered and stammered.

"Keep going." He said, catching her confused gaze.

She blinked and snapped her mouth shut before continuing – frowning as she focussed all her attention on the inky text, trying to block out the man standing in front of her. _What on earth was the point of all this?_ She wondered.

"Sit on the desk." He commanded quietly.

Elizabeth dithered, but did as she was told, using one hand to steady herself and the other to hold the book as she shifted her body to perch on the edge of Lord Beckett's desk – still reading as she did so, not daring to look up – her eyes hiding in the depths of the text. The security and comfort she turned to daily to numb the boredom and loneliness that came with being Lady Beckett. Her breath hitched as she felt him carefully step in-between her legs, be-ringed fingers gliding up the bare flesh of her thighs spread either side of his hips. She paused suddenly as they felt the slight swell of her hips – before returning to their original spot, his thumbs slipping slowly down to stroke the soft skin of her inner thighs – threatening to spread them wider, to move higher to their warm apex. She swallowed the lump in her throat and felt her stomach turn anxiously as he looked up at her.

"Did I ask you to stop?" he asked coolly, yet sternly.

"No, but…" Elizabeth blinked.

"Stop or stutter again and you'll be back here every night to read to me until you've completed the entire book." He warned. Elizabeth glared at him angrily,

"I don't care."

"Oh I think you do." He replied with a slight smirk, his hands still resting on her thighs.

Elizabeth frowned, exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath before lifting the book and continuing to read – determined to finish so she could just go back to bed and not have to come back. But she didn't realise how hard concentrating on the book without hesitation and frequent pauses would be. He pushed her legs further apart and lifted the short and thin cotton shift over her hips. Elizabeth felt her brow knit worriedly, realising what was coming next and attempted to cloud her mind with the most potent rum she'd ever tasted – to numb her senses. She was out of her depth now, heading into wild waters, and found herself bewildered like a deer staring down the barrel of a gun as she watched him over the top of the book – dropping to his knees before her. It was so out of character for someone who spent every day of his life acting above everyone he met. It was so strange to see him on his knees.

She tried to keep her attention on the book as she felt him kissing her thighs – first on top, then across the soft skin inside, and then right on the warm junction of her thighs. A torturous caress. She gasped, knuckles white as she suddenly clutched the book tighter – eyes fluttering shut as she felt his lips and breath ghosting over her molten core. It took every ounce of will to not stop reading – she felt her eyes flutter shut, her thighs trembled, a thundering ache ignited in the pit of her stomach, and a hand dizzily slipped from holding the worn edges of the book to clutching the edge of the mahogany desk.

"I can't hear you reading." Came the sarcastic drawl, dragging her back down to earth from skimming the clouds.

"Ah…" Elizabeth gasped, forcing herself to continue. "His… mouth… mouth and tongue shamefully...ah, _shamelessly_ stroked…across hot skin to ch… charm the very centre of my…my desire…" she stuttered – how ironic, she thought, that she was describing exactly what he was doing. "Oh God…" she added with a gasp.

"I don't believe it's the bible you're reading…" he warned, his voice thick and seductively dark.

She continued to read dizzily and breathlessly as his tongue dipped and wriggled inside and along every silken fold and ridge – so thorough and masterful in technique he dragged moans and sighs from her trembling lips with every teasing flick. Elizabeth read breathlessly, tripping and stumbling as she tried to stay in control of her body and mind – both succumbing to the potent poison careering through hot veins to where she throbbed violently for release. _Damn the book!_ She inwardly groaned, dropping it to the floor beside her husband before leaning back on one arm – losing all her pride as she found her hand knotting in the fine white hair of his wig. Pulling him closer, deeper. A dangerous gesture.

Her breaths came quicker, the muscles of her abdomen clenched in ecstatic agony, she gasped an expletive and clenched her eyes shut as she got closer and closer to mindless oblivion. Then with one more deep lunge and flick came the frenzied hot rush, a tidal wave surging from her centre to the tips of her fingers and toes. She cried out, barely recognising her own voice as it slowly ebbed into silence with each pleasurable wave.

Elizabeth sighed deeply as she opened her eyes, her lips dry and parted in a rosy 'O.' She remained frozen like a statue on the desk as Beckett finally rose to his feet and subtly licked his lips – staring lazily at her. She raised her eyebrows as she noticed his wig had bared the brunt of their secret reading class – stray hairs sticking up here and there, the wig tilted messily to one side with tiny scruffs of his own brown hair showing on one side. She daren't laugh – though she wanted to.

"Disappointing..." He said as he turned around to face the door, readjusting his powdery wig as he walked over to them. "Such a lack of concentration."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she slipped off the desk to stand, rearranging her cotton shift and picking up her discarded book.

"Something we will have to remedy…" Said Beckett as he retrieved a key from his pocket and unlocked the doors. "So I'll expect you back here tomorrow night, and every night after until I'm completely satisfied." He added as he walked back over to Elizabeth – picking up her discarded dressing gown with one finger on the way.

"Fine." She replied icily, snatching it from him.

"You may leave now." He said, smirking slightly as he took the book from her and placed it on his desk.

"My lord." Elizabeth said jokingly as she bowed before him dramatically.

She wrapped the dressing gown around her shoulders as she walked to the doors, her legs wobbling slightly with each step – the warm glow in her abdomen aching happily. She opened the doors and stepped out into the cold corridor, her lips curving into a cheeky smirk as she returned to her bed chamber – a rosy flush across her cheeks.

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**More soon... **


	3. Bathroom

**Disclaimer - **I own only the chaotic smut in my mind and the yummy prose that flows from my fingers... So please don't sue! I can barely afford rent as it is!

**Comments - **Thanks to everyone who read & reviewed the first two chapters :) **lock little devil**, **ElizabethInBlackAndGold**, **Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess** and **Liveforthedream** - much love! Thanks so much for reading, there's plenty more to come. Et voila! Smutlet number 3; the prompt for this one was _'Bathroom.'  
_  
Kinky prose ahead... you have been warned, if beckabeth isn't your cup of tea then best look away. :)

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part III - 'Bathroom'**

Governor Weatherby Swann believed in cleanliness above all things. Proud personal hygiene, tidy appearance and trim manners were the key to personal success.

To that end, he'd gone to great lengths to ensure a little jaunt to the Caribbean wasn't going to jeopardize either he, or his daughter's hygiene. He'd heard about the humid squalor, the tropical diseases and the intense heat. London was bad enough – he'd grown up surrounded by wealth and yet could never escape the filth: shit lined the pavements, bodies floated down the Thames and you could buy a clap infected whore on the Strand for little more than a pint of wine and shilling (not that he **EVER** had – of course). Therefore, what would a colony in the middle of nowhere be like?

And so, he'd decided to come prepared.

He'd brought two chest-fulls of medicine bought from the most prestigious quack doctor on the Strand for a handsome sum: vials of mercury, salt water from Bath and powdered analgesics. He'd brought books on medicine and the finest French toiletries. But the most magnificent import of all was the beautiful porcelain bath tub from Italy he'd acquired.

The smooth, white tub – with its high neck and finely crafted golden feet wouldn't have looked out of place at Versailles, the Palazzo Pitti, or any other continental palace. Yet, rather than caress a naked, noble arse – it was boxed and carefully stowed in the hold of the Dauntless, bound for the Caribbean.

He'd installed the bath in the Governors House and had immediately established protocol concerning bath time where his daughter was concerned. Elizabeth was to bathe at least three times a week: On Saturday evening before church the following morning, Tuesday evening and then on Thursday evening. The only occasion that the established order had been interrupted was the day that Elizabeth had been arrested and gone pirating.

She'd spent months at sea on a ship full of smelly pirates; where the hold was filled with rum and gunpowder – not soap and perfume. She'd had to make do with sea water to bathe and rum to wash wounds – which wasn't the nicest of things to endure over a long period of time. The closest she'd come to hot water, steam and soap was in Singapore, at Sao Feng's bathhouse.

And then her literal filthy existence came to an end and was replaced with different sort of smutty existence.

The armada destroyed the Brethren, Will died, Jack disappeared, Barbossa fled with the Pearl and Elizabeth, found floating among the destruction was captured (**not** rescued – as her infuriating husband would often suggest) by the Endeavour.

Although there had been many changes in Port Royal since she'd left – her personal bathing time was not one of them. Lord Beckett had either forgotten to amend the final surviving rule from the old regime – or had resolved not to change it. Elizabeth had decided that Lord Beckett was probably one of those neurotics who hated dirt and was more likely to encourage frequent baths than discourage them.

Therefore the bathroom had become somewhat of a personal retreat.

Every Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday evening at five o clock – Elizabeth retreated to her bed chamber where she undressed and changed into her dressing gown. She'd take tea and read whilst her maids made themselves busy in the bathroom – heating water to fill the tub, lighting candles and preparing toiletries. Due to the size of the bath, and the time it took to heat the water – Elizabeth usually wasn't in the bath until around six o clock. When the maids had left and the door was closed she'd sink into the hot, milky, soap smothered waters and forget the world. She'd let her mind wander – let it ponder the 'what ifs' in her life and dream herself to somewhere else, anywhere else. She enjoyed the isolation and the time to herself as much as the mornings where she woke up alone in her bed. But better still – she was **never** disturbed, as her husband never returned until near eight o clock.

Elizabeth lay back in the bath, submerging her shoulders whilst she glanced around the bathroom. Candles lined the window sills – adding a lazy glow to the humid room, where not a sound was to be heard but the occasional ripple and drip of still water disturbed. Steam clung ardently to the windows – where the mango blush of an indolent Caribbean sunset filtered through and drew palm patterns on the far wall. Clammy strands of hair fused themselves to her forehead in the sultry heat, and droplets of musky eau de toilette she'd used to perfume her skin, pooled in the cavity created by her collarbone. Towels and linen littered the cool tiles underfoot, and tiny uncorked bottles filled with oils and soap rested on a small side table.

Utterly relaxed, with nothing to do but think – she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the porcelain rim of the bath.

_I wonder where Jack is_, she thought. _Gibbs, Barbossa… Cotton, Marty… Pintel, Ragetti? _But most of all, Jack.

Had he forgotten she existed? He knew she wasn't dead, he knew where she was – he must have, so why hadn't he come to fetch her? Her hazy, idle mind conjured up hundreds of heroic, rescues – but the realist deep within begged to differ. _Why should he?_ She thought. If he had any sense, he'd stay as far away from Port Royal as he could. Gone were the days of a pathetic, skeletal warning to pirates on the rocks of the harbour – now, pirates were hung every day, hundreds shackled together and led to the gallows. The EITC had made Port Royal it's hub of iniquity, and therefore pirates everywhere made sure they stayed well away.

No, if she were to escape – she had to do it herself.

* * *

Lord Beckett descended the short few steps from his personal carriage and gazed up at the highest windows of the Governor's House. Deep sunset pasted the typically white walls, palms shadowing a window here and there.

He'd returned much earlier than he usually did – having satisfied a large pile of death warrants, trade plans and accounts soon after six o clock. After an idle day in his office with incompetent, mindless employees and condemned prisoners groveling at his black lacquered boots – he was ready for a glass of port and dinner. Although as it wouldn't be served for another hour or so he'd have to entertain himself some other way. He glanced upward, noticing candles flickering in what he understood to be the bathroom and smirked to himself.

"Good evening Mr. Mercer." He nodded, shooing his henchman as he walked through the front door.

* * *

Tired of silence, Elizabeth began to sing as she sponged her shoulders and neck – a powerful song from the past whirring in her mind, one that would get her into trouble if she were to be heard even humming it.

"…The bell has been raised from it's watery grave… pay heed it's sepulchral tone… A call to all, pay heed the squall – turn your sails to home…"

_Yo ho… all hands, hoist the colours high… Heave ho, thieves and beggars… never shall we die…_

So involved in her own singing, she barely heard the bathroom door handle twist, click and turn – and a presence slip silently into the room. She continued to fill the sponge and squeeze it to her soft skin – trickles of soapy water dribbling down her décolletage. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, pressing the waterlogged, fluffy sponge to the nook of her neck and sighing as the hot water flooded her chest. When she opened her eyes, she found she was no longer alone: Lord Beckett was standing beside the bath looking down at her – smiling, _barely_. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and crunched her body forward – bringing her legs to her chest and holding her shins, so her breasts pressed softly against her thighs and the tops of her knees poked out from beneath the cloudy bathwater.

"Ah, my husband…" she sighed sarcastically, "…the light of my life…the jewel in my crown, the thorn in my side… Back so soon? Tell me, how many more innocent people did you murder today?"

"Pirates dear wife… not people." He smirked, as he gazed southward to scan the milky bathwater. "…and I should add you to the long list of deceased for singing that little ditty."

"Then why don't you?" Elizabeth scowled.

Beckett didn't reply, instead he stared deep into the bathwater and extended his hand – dipping his cold, ink stained fingers into the warm waters and running them alongside Elizabeth's body. She blinked up at him with wide, outraged eyes – frozen, as if his inky, cold fingers and intent glare had chilled the hot bathwater into a dark pool of ice. She shuddered as his fingers stroked blindly though the soapy waters and softly, perhaps accidentally, brushed her thigh. A raw flush prickled violently across her cheeks at the sensation. Suddenly, she frowned at him, he'd disturbed _her_ time – and for what exactly?

"Why are you here?" she asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

He dragged his gaze from the irritatingly opaque bathwater and stared at her fluidly – his cold eyes holding powerful intent, his lips pursed lightly. Elizabeth's brow clenched worriedly, and her lips fell open like a fish in deep water.

"No." she said simply, raising her chin and shaking her head.

"Oh come now Elizabeth, don't be bashful." He smirked, pacing across the room to the window – through which the setting sun shone a passionate shade of orange. "I think you quite enjoy our conjugal routine."

"Oh yes, this is _very_ romantic." She remarked sourly, blinking around the room for her towel whilst his back was turned – unhappily, she found it was lying casually across a silk upholstered chaise long in the corner of the room, far from reach.

"I've never claimed to be a romantic." Lord Beckett remarked dryly, as he slowly turned to face her, his sudden gaze dark and foreboding.

"My towel, please." She asked firmly – outstretching one arm to point to the lonely towel, and using the other aptly to cover her breasts.

Lord Beckett ignored her request. He stared at her darkly from the other side of the room, with that air of lazy arrogance written across his body – from the superior smirk hiding in the corner of his lips, to the shiny black polish of his long leather, boots. Elizabeth stared back at him hesitantly, waiting for his final assault – but she had a feeling that there was far more to endure before he decided to put her out of her flush faced misery. He stepped forward a little to stand beside a side table that held a miniature candelabra – stopping to finger the warm metal and the droplets of humidity that clung there.

Elizabeth watched him closely, watching his index finger caress the tiny bead of moisture tenderly, before kissing it between finger and thumb in a ruthless squeeze. She bit her lip delicately, a sudden longing for his finger to touch her similarly.

"Tell me, have you heard of the term Bagnio?"

"…yes, it's the word for a Turkish prison." Elizabeth replied, perplexed by his sudden tangent in what had felt like a conversation with a predetermined end.

"Ah, very good." He droned condescendingly, "… but the word also has another meaning..."

He paused and glanced at her, as if waiting for her to answer him with the correct term. But instead she just glared at him – baffled, her eyes wide, her motions halted – waiting with baited breath for the conclusion he was slowly creeping towards. So, he continued – pacing around the room as he spoke.

"I suppose you left London at too early an age to understand the meaning of the word in it's most English form." He remarked dryly. "A bagnio is a bathhouse frequented by whores – where a man of quality can sup, bathe and sleep with a high class harlot for a measly six guineas."

His eyes met hers for a brief moment, dark and quietly fierce, before he continued to speak and tread the room slowly. Elizabeth frowned into her bathwater as her mind tracked back to Singapore and Sao Feng's bathhouse. She couldn't remember much of London – only the smell and the squalor, but she wondered if Sao's bathhouse was similar to these bagnio's of which Lord Beckett spoke. She recalled the thick steam making vision cloudy, the smell of spices and incense. She saw the men bathing half naked, and the women that hovered around – smoking pipes and hanging from their sweaty shoulders with carefully ornamented raven hair clinging to their shoulders.

"…there are hundreds of these establishments all across London…" Lord Beckett continued. "Thriving, as the bawds often bribe the Watch to turn a blind eye…"

Elizabeth regarded him closely as he spoke – his eyes were entrenched in the Chinese pattern of her silk dressing gown, refusing to look at her. There was something more to this short lesson in London culture she decided.

"You've been to one…" she smirked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Once." Lord Beckett replied, after a short silent moment of restraint. "…during my youth…"

Elizabeth listened intently, leaning casually against one side of the bath as her husband told her of the time a close, yet unnamed friend had taken him on a tour of London's seedy underground and to the infamous bagnio of Mrs. Welch in Covent Garden.

Fresh out of his studies at Streatham, he'd moved back into the centre of London to work for his father in the offices of the EITC and to that end, was attempting to become re-accustomed as an adult to the city that had bore him. Covent Garden was the cesspit of sin, where entertainment and sex flourished hand in hand. Theatres, Coffee Houses, Clubs, Bagnio's and Street Entertainment – all masquerading as brothels. There was a bed for every vice – from the Molly Houses to the garrets of fashionable courtesans and therefore, naturally, the small square and its surrounding streets, were the favourite haunt of every young gent living in the city.

Quite 'innocently' he'd wandered through the stone arch with the Turkish bust sitting above the door as the few scattered street lamps were being lit. The humidity had hit him instantly in the modest front room as he handed over five guineas, his hat and cloak to a large pox pitted woman in fine silk. Through a secret door in the wood paneling they went, till they reached a large back room decorated like a roman spa with great stone baths and steam that scorched the air.

Elizabeth listened, wide lipped and eyed as she saw the scene with her mind's eye. The men bathing here and there with women in their laps, and on steam sodden silk chairs where they rutted languidly between their soft, supple thighs. She licked her dry lips as he continued on, and on.

He couldn't remember the girl's name – only her wet, black hair and piercing blue eyes. The fragrant, hot droplets that clung to her rose painted lips, the vivid red stockings with black ribbon ties and her ample bosom tearing against the heat through her stays and chemise.

She'd undressed him, poured him some gin, washed him then fucked him on the expensive and mossy chaise long in the corner – never saying a word, nor removing her damp, silk stockings.

The first, the last. He never returned.

Elizabeth bit her lip softly. So, he wasn't as free from vice as she'd once thought him to be. It was a wonderful revelation – and the sudden image of him in some dark, misty corner of a brothel with a woman other than herself was both erotic and enticing. She hated to admit she felt some jealousy towards this unknown woman who'd obviously left such a secret mark on him. When he finally glanced at her, she met his gaze with a knowing smile.

"Did you love her?" she dared to ask – hoping to take advantage and wrench the dark secret out.

"…a common folly of the young." He replied bluntly.

Elizabeth rested her chin on her hands as she lent over the side of the bath and stared thoughtfully at the floor tiles. They weren't in London, the Governor's House wasn't a bagnio and she _certainly_ wasn't a whore. But, the story had created a warmth in her, and desire to recreate that certain something in her cold hearted husband. She narrowed her eyes as she watched him stare out of the bathroom window and suddenly stood up in the bath – a rush of warm water flooding and sloshing down her body.

Naked, she carefully stepped out of the tub, her warm feet hitting the cold tiles with a slap – dripping small pools onto the floor as she walked across the room. She stopped just behind Lord Beckett, and softly but warily placed her hands on his shoulders.

"My lord." She whispered, as she slipped the black coat from his shoulders and placed it carefully on top her towel that rested on the back of the chaise long beside them.

Beckett slowly turned around to look at her, his brow tense – befuddled. His eyes darkened as they took in her appearance – from the damp strands of blonde hair falling from the dry twist above and clinging to the nape of her neck, to the rosy blush of her warm skin and the stubborn streaks of bathwater that clung to her navel. She smirked at him, her eyelids heavy and wanton as she stood there, naked to brave the storm ahead.

Playfully, she fluttered her lashes and bit her lip as she stepped closer – hovering her pink lips against his own, feeling a sharp flush in the darkest cell of her body when she heard the dry click in his throat and his eyes hovering from her enticing lips to her breasts, the tips puckering against the suddenly cool air.

She crept her hand to the back of his neck and removed his wig swiftly – throwing it over her shoulder and exhaling a sharp, amused breath when she heard it land in the bath with a light splosh. Lord Beckett sighed and pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes as he glared at her.

"Not. Funny." He bit out, through gritted teeth.

He grabbed her arms and seized her lips angrily, pulling her wet body against him hard. His hands drizzled down her wet back, catching each droplet of bathwater on the tips of his cold fingers as she shuddered. It was all there, free for the taking – he needant tear a stitch or seam, a stocking or lace – all he felt beneath his fingertips was warm, and welcoming flesh.

He buried his face in the moist nook of her neck – stroking the tip of his nose where un-rinsed soap fused itself to her soft skin, flooding his nostrils with pheromones that fuelled the potent, aching desire in his groin. Elizabeth sighed as he sucked and kissed at the tender flesh in the willow of her slender neck – closing her eyes momentarily.

She wanted more – quickly, and grasped the seams of his waistcoat, taking it from him, along with the smooth silky necktie whilst his hands grasped hungrily at the fleshy bow of her hips. She wanted to ignite something in him – to tempt the secret hiding beneath his cold skin. She wanted to bring more to the surface than the Covent Garden jade from his past had.

Beckett squeezed hard till the flesh of her waist blushed angrily, at which point he stroked upward over her ribcage to fondle her breasts – teasing each wet pore till they both throbbed and heaved. She frowned and exhaled a restrained breath as her thighs clenched involuntarily – the bittersweet scent of her desire flooding between them like smoldering incense. He indulged it, coaxed it – pushing her onto the chaise long beside them and pinning her down. Rubbing his hand against the moist apex of her clenching thighs as she writhed beneath him – removing the final, accessible pieces of clothing before he quickly and desperately drowned himself inside her.

He growled deeply at the sudden enveloping warmth and wetness – staring hungrily at her as he moved steadily and built to a fevered pace. He rested his lips below her ear – whispering dark words: London, harlots, sex and gin to her over and over till she clenched her eyes, bit down on his shoulder and muffled a scream.

Soon, the steam had disappeared, the sun had set and the bathwater had gone cold, and they lay tangled on the chaise long – the silk wet beneath them.

* * *

**More soon :)**


	4. Sitting

**Disclaimer - **Just a bit of fun ladies and gentlemen... no profit being made from this, I own nothing but the smut in my mind - so please don't sue, I'm a penniless student - woe!

**Comments-** Kinky prose ahead... you have been warned, if Beckabeth isn't your cup of tea then best look away. :) Another smutlet for the Beckabeth table - 'Sitting.' Enjoy!

* * *

**The Fortunate Mistress - Part IV - 'Sitting'**

The situation was becoming a little bit more than ridiculous.

Not only was Lord Beckett keeping her under house arrest, but now he was confiscating her letters? She'd noticed over the past few months of marriage how her usual stream of correspondents had slowly dried into a light trickle. First, all her financial mail had disappeared; the letters that updated her on the status of her father's account in London suddenly stopped, then letters from her family – aunts, uncles and cousins stopped too, and finally letters from dearly missed friends from her childhood whom she'd kept a close correspondence with since she left England for the Caribbean. Elizabeth refused to believe her friends and family had simply stopped writing to her, and further more refused to believe that her inheritance back in England had dried up – just the same as the stream of monthly personal mail.

One evening she finally understood where all her letters had gone. Whilst eating dinner, the not so happy couple were disturbed by Mercer – who brought in his dark gloved hand a packet of papers, sealed and addressed. Elizabeth paused her fork to watch silently as her husband took the pile and shuffled through it – opening some letters whilst discarding others into a small pile by his plate. Curious, Elizabeth peered over the table and recognised the seal on one of the letters – it belonged to her Aunt. She frowned,

"**You've** been stealing my letters!?" she shouted.

Beckett's eyes lifted slowly from the paper he was reading, the cold gaze regarding his hysterical wife calmly, without emotion. He held that gaze only for a moment before looking back to the letter and taking a careful sip from his glass of port.

"I haven't been stealing them, I've been _confiscating _them." He remarked dryly.

"Give them to me." Elizabeth demanded, jumping up from her seat and rushing to his end of the table – but before she got there, he'd placed the small pile in his coat pocket.

"I'm afraid it's necessary that I hold onto them." He said, picking up his knife and fork and continuing with his dinner – roast pork.

"Those are private letters!" Elizabeth whined.

"Yes, and how can I be sure what you correspond to these people about?" he said, not looking up from his meal, even though Elizabeth wouldn't stop fussing – exhaling violently, tapping her foot, folding her arms, frowning… Lord Beckett went out of his way to ignore her petulant hysterics, "Sit down." He simply said – firmly, like a master barking commands at his disobedient dog – if she didn't obey the firm command, she obeyed the cold eyes instead – each one holding powerful, dark intent.

Elizabeth didn't ask about her letters anymore. She decided Lord Beckett would never willingly surrender them to her – and so, instead she decided to embark upon a quest to retrieve them herself. She first wondered where he might keep them – his private study was the obvious choice, and late one night when the whole house had gone to bed, she crept down the corridor, picked the lock with a hair pin and snuck inside. She searched thoroughly; in every chest, every drawer and every cabinet. She found some very interesting letters about her husbands activities during the day – death warrants, plots, plans that sent a chill down her spine; but couldn't find the letters anywhere. She tried to think of other places he might have hidden them, but still came up empty. The last place in the house she could think of was his bedroom – but she refused to go in there, even for the sake of her letters.

One day Elizabeth rose early, woken up by a commotion in the entry hall of the house. Getting up to go and find out what it was she found herself sitting in the corner of the stairwell, peering through the golden railings to the hallway down below. Lord Beckett was on his way to work and seemed to be fussing around with a broken umbrella that Mercer had handed him. The weather throughout the week had been stormy and Port Royal had seen a lot of rain because of it. Her husband always travelled by coach to work even when the weather was good – but that day the rain was too bad to even walk out to the coach, and therefore he needed an umbrella to keep his silly wig dry. Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she watched. He was ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.

Then she noticed white papers sticking out of his pocket – she blinked, it was **her** letters, she was sure of it. So, Lord Beckett kept them at the EITC offices it seemed. She mentally slapped herself for not thinking of it sooner – of course he would have kept them there. Still, she wasn't allowed out of the house without an escort, so had no chance of finding them even if they were there!

And so, a plan to get them back was born.

Elizabeth knew she wasn't allowed to leave the house unless she was with Lord Beckett (which was never), or if he personally allowed it (which was also never) – but surely there was no one to police this ridiculous rule at night? Therefore, one night when Elizabeth was sure the whole house was silent – she crept out of bed, grabbed her black cloak (which she never wore, since she never went out), slipped it on over her white cotton night gown, snuck downstairs – making sure to avoid any creaky floorboards on the way, and then silently out of the house.

It had been far too easy.

Elizabeth had never walked the streets of Port Royal at night – she knew her father would never have let her when he was alive, and even though she knew she could hold her own if things got dangerous – she still hesitated as she walked down the trail that led into town. The streets were dark and quiet. There were a few drunks lying around and the faint sound of laughter and music when she passed by Port Royal's most popular tavern, but apart from that – the town was sleepy and silent. When she finally reached the offices of the East India Trading Company – a modest, stone building overlooking the harbour, the large clock that had been added just recently to the building was ticking quietly past two o clock.

Predictably, she found the main door locked – and had no desire to go unlocking it with her hairpin – just in case she couldn't lock it again which was undesirable seeing as she intended to leave the scene of the crime exactly the way she'd found it. She decided instead that she'd enter the building via the balcony, and from there found the doors leading directly into her husband's office relatively easy to unlock with her hair pin.

The room was dark and quiet, and most importantly – Lord Beckett-less. There was the floor to ceiling map of his _'realm'_ (i.e. everywhere on earth covered in water), book cases full of volumes, charts, books and important documents no doubt, there was a large fireplace, a table with a map sprawled across it covered with toy ships and figurines. But there, at the head of the room – regally looking over the entire room – king of the furniture, sovereign of office space, was Lord Beckett's desk.

Elizabeth glared at it curiously - she could just imagine him sitting there in that large mahogany, red leather chair overseeing his destruction of the world, ordering people about, drinking his damned tea… She bit her lip delicately; despite her hatred for the man – there _was_ something hugely erotic about the power he held. Especially the destructive power. He could kill her quite easily and without blame if he wanted, but he didn't – there was something intriguing about that.

Approaching as hesitatingly slow as she would have done had her husband been sitting behind the desk, Elizabeth decided there was no point spending the time gawking at her surrounding. It was unlikely she'd be disturbed, but still – no use waiting around to find out. The desk was irritatingly neat. Papers piled tidily on the side, an ink well with not so much as a splodge of ink dripping down the side, a pure white quill, a small wooden chest she recognised from another night she'd spent snooping around, and a candle holder with a brand new candle sitting in it – waiting to be lit for the first time. Elizabeth carefully lifted the lid of the small chest – hoping to find her letters there, but they weren't.

She decided that perhaps he'd locked them inside the desk, and so she carefully walked around to what felt like forbidden territory and cautiously sat down in his chair, his throne. The leather squeaked as she sat, and caught up in a bizarre moment she smiled and spun around in it, the room blurring as she did so. Realising she was wasting time, she stopped herself and set to work on the drawers of the desk. The first draw – locked. The second – locked. Third and fourth – locked, locked. All locked. Frustrated, she sighed – but forced herself to keep trying. She pulled free her trusty hair pin and started trying to pick each lock. But after ten minutes of clicking and clunking – none of them seemed to unlock – in fact it sounded like she was locking them more with each turn of her wrist.

She sat back in the chair and kicked the desk with her foot, the various items on top of the desk wobbling and tottering from the quick shove she gave it. Feeling annoyed and defeated, Elizabeth rested her head against the tall back of the chair then using her feet spun the chair around and around – blurring her surroundings whilst she tried to think of a new plan and wondering whether this crusade for her stolen letters was worth it all along. But as she spun herself around and around – she noticed a dull light appear in her hazy vision. Quickly, she dropped her feet, stopping the chair abruptly and staring out into the almost dark office. In the doorway was a figure holding a lamp, and when Elizabeth's gaze had worked through it's dizziness she realised who it was. She gasped, her eyes wide,

It was Lord Beckett.

He was standing in the doorway like a ghostly spectre, dressed casually – which for him was his full daily suit, minus the coat and tricorn hat. His white shirt sleeves stuck out in the darkness as well as the white powder of his wig – the lamp he held set a ghostly glow over his face, his cold features lit up. Elizabeth shivered, she wasn't afraid of him – only mildly disturbed. Had he known she'd be here?

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I should ask you the same question." He replied, slowly advancing deeper into the room.

"I came searching for the letters of mine you've been stealing." Elizabeth frowned as she rose to her feet – there seemed no use in denying why she was there, Beckett probably knew anyway.

"Ah." He smirked, as he carefully placed the lantern down onto the charting table. "And have you had any success?"

Elizabeth pursed her lips and glanced down at the floorboards and the expensive Persian rug that fed beneath Lord Beckett's desk. Why did she have a feeling this encounter was going to travel into the realm of humiliation, condescendence and shame very soon?

"No, I haven't." she said, walking around the desk to stand beside a book shelf.

She idly thumbed the various books sitting on the shelves – volumes and volumes of British naval history, books on accounting and wealth, diaries and records with documents involving taxes, imports and map books. Each one of them seemed in perfect condition – either Lord Beckett never read them, or he was one of those neurotics who refused to crack book spines and dog ear pages. Her hatred for him made her favour the latter of the two. And speaking of hatred,

"Those letters could be very important…" she scowled, "You have no right to keep them from me!"

"I am your husband Elizabeth… I can do what whatever I want with them." He pointed out in his thick aristocratic drawl as he walked slowly over the table – his hands laced behind his back.

"How am I supposed to keep in touch with my family? How are they to know I'm well?" she asked, her voice turning into a high pitched whine.

"I think you gave up keeping in touch with your family in England when you decided to go pirating, Elizabeth." Lord Beckett said as he sat down behind his desk.

Elizabeth glared at the floor and shifted her weight, he'd got her there – she'd forgotten all about her relatives back in England after everything that had happened with the Black Pearl, meeting Captain Jack Sparrow, getting engaged to Will and then leaving Port Royal for Tortuga that distant night ago, the last time she'd been in this office in fact. The letters hadn't stopped, of course not – but they'd become shorter, rushed and she only sent them every couple of months as opposed to weeks.

"Look, I understand why the letters from my father's banker in London might be of interest to you – but those letters from my friends and family are personal, why on earth would you want them?" Elizabeth attempted to negotiate calmly as she lent over the front of his desk, though the words ended up coming out through gritted teeth.

"…and what exactly are you going to write to them about? Hmm?" Lord Beckett said, his expression flat and sarcastic, "…about how horrid your husband is, and what evil things he does to you, and how you simply must be rescued?" he continued, an eyebrow quirked.

"Of course not." Elizabeth said softly, widening her doe eyes and giving a light flutter of her dark lashes – she hadn't intended to, it was almost second nature to her now.

"Your feminine guile might have swayed Master Turner and those syphilitic pirates Elizabeth – but it doesn't fool me." Lord Beckett sighed, his eyes briefly washing over her breasts as she continued to lean over the desk.

"Argh!" Elizabeth grunted, slamming her fist down onto the desk. Her husband didn't flinch – he just stared at her coldly.

Folding her arms across her chest and staring down at her husband with a defeated frown – she waited for him to say something. He stared at her for just a moment – his eyes taking a lazy stroll from her stormy gaze down her neck, to her breasts, to the soft bow of her waist and the slight swell of her hips – and to everything that lay beyond. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, it was a visual action she knew too well. Deciding her plan had failed, she turned on her heel and begun the long walk back to the Governors House.

She should have known nothing was ever that simple when it came to Lord Beckett, and he wasn't just going to let the fact she broke out of the house and into his office slip by.

"Of course… I'm always open to negotiation." He said suddenly.

Elizabeth paused and looked over her shoulder. He was holding up a little bundle of letters tied together with a bright red ribbon, a smirk across his lips. _Her_ letters.

"I'm listening." She said, turning around to face him fully.

"I will give you every single letter of yours I have in my possession – but for each one, you will give me something in return." He said as he softly tugged at the red ribbon, allowing the letters to cascade across his desk. "…a fair proposition, don't you think?" Elizabeth's eyes narrowed,

"That all depends on what _'something'_ is." She said, folding her arms across her chest as she eyed the letters hungrily. Beckett smirked, a slight laugh escaping his quirked, cold lips.

Knowing she would need some harsh provoking to agree to his terms, he grabbed one of the many letters lying in front of him and ripped it open. He could feel his wife's unease as his eyes skimmed across the blotted calligraphy,

"My dear Elizabeth…" he read, sadistically, enjoying taunting her with each word. "It has been many months since we have received word from you…" he drawled on for a while – stopping before the letter delved deeper than small talk – the anguish and curiosity on Elizabeth's face was quite a picture.

"Lord Beckett I…"

"Do you accept?" he interrupted, "…or should I just assume you don't want them that badly and burn the whole lot? They are beginning to somewhat clutter my desk."

Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, staring at him with pursed lips and a fretting brow – she wondered if he was bluffing, if she could read his mind and trump his proposition. But time was ticking and her few seconds of thought were too long in her husband's world of fast money and good business. He dipped the corner of the letter closer to the candle in front of him – it's orange glow hitting the parchment and shining through it dangerously. Elizabeth frowned and bit her lip,

"Done." She said quickly, realising far too late that he'd trumped her empty hand.

"Good." He replied, throwing the letter onto the desk in front of him.

He looked up at her as he leant back in his chair, crooking his index and middle finger delicately to beckon her forward. She did as she was told, as if an invisible puppet string from his fingers pulled her involuntarily – it wasn't far from the truth. Despite having ultimate powers of protestation, Elizabeth never had the final word; she could swing this way and that, twist the strings and make things difficult – but Lord Beckett was always in control as puppet master.

Elizabeth glared at him; her lips parted, her brow tense – wondering what sort of price he would demand for her letters. _Silly girl_, she thought to herself, _agreeing to his price before knowing what it is_ – though she felt she already knew what it might be.

"Remove your cloak." He said bluntly. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and glowered at him,

"Are you afraid to seduce me Lord Beckett?" she asked, grinning slightly – hoping she might touch a raw nerve. "Are you so _unable_ to attempt a real seduction that each possession must turn into some sadistical power game?" she twiddled with the ribbon of her cloak – taunting him further. "Is it simply some ploy to mask your… _shortcomings_?"

Lord Beckett stared calmly at her as she attempted to disarm him – his gaze penetrating her wild eyes and calculating her next move. She thought she'd been clever, wounded him fatally – though she never knew how much he loved it when she fought back: hitting, scowling, raking her nails vengefully down his back – it fuelled his desire more than her humiliation. But, for appearances sake: he lifted his eyebrows, momentarily feigning irritancy before softly picking a letter up between two fingers and dipping it into the naked flame of the candle. Dropping it onto a silver plate and sitting leisurely back in his chair – he watched the flames dance across the paper, the corners curling into black ash – concern, family news and love melting to dust.

When his eyes returned to Elizabeth's, her gaze was stormy and silent – her brow knit with suspended fury. Although he wanted to laugh, smirk or grin in success – he suppressed it in favour of the stern, cold look of a man in complete control.

"Your cloak." He said, more firmly this time – picking up another letter as a warning.

Elizabeth squirmed, glancing to the side in her trademark tedious huff before loosening the ribbons of her cloak with nimble fingers and allowing it to pool around her ankles. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at her husband, awaiting his next command impatiently.

"Good girl." He said coldly, an invisible quirk to the corner of his lips as he watched her.

Elizabeth frowned, angered by his words. He was so knowingly condescending to her – she _hated_, beyond anything, being called a girl and she knew he knew that and did it purposely to enrage her.

"Now then, a letter from…" he said, pausing to read the name on the seal of the letter he held, "…Lady Flora…for your night gown."

He fluttered the letter a little to entice her, though he need not have – Elizabeth had decided there was no escaping so she might as well be willingly dragged along by his emotional leash. She crossed her arms across her waist and gathered the soft cotton with her fingers, slowly lifting it up and over her head till she was standing bare in nothing but her pantalettes and stockings. _I wish I'd worn more to come here…_ she thought inwardly with a sigh, before thrusting the nightgown angrily at her husband. He barely flinched, catching it easily before it hit him.

"There." She snapped. "Now my letter if you please." She asked, holding out one hand whilst the other concealed her bare breasts.

Lord Beckett dropped the nightgown to the floor beside his chair, glaring at her momentarily before holding Lady Flora's letter in the naked flame. Elizabeth's mouth dropped wide open as watched another one of her letters turn to dust.

"No!" she screeched, "What the hell did you do that for?!" she asked through gritted teeth – leaning over him angrily and forgetting her modesty.

"I asked for your night gown Elizabeth, not your temper." He remarked dryly.

"This is ridiculous." She replied, more to herself than anyone else – and she realised she should have thought it, not said it when another of her letters went up in flames.

Elizabeth decided she'd taken more than she could stand – were the letters really worth this torture? If he wasn't willing to let her have them fairly and instead make her play his stupid games, then she'd rather not have them at all. They were only letters after all. He and his silly candle could have them!

"Do you know what? I don't want them anymore." She snapped, picking up her cloak from around her ankles. "Keep them." She added, lifting her chin defiantly before turning her back on him.

Lord Beckett stared after her as she strode to the door that led out of his offices – his eyes glued to her bare back. The soft, fair skin, the delicious curve to it – everything from the subtle trace of her spine to the beauty spot at her lower back. Delectable. He wouldn't release her as simply as that – of course he was always ready with an emergency bargaining tool. He waited till she reached the door before he called her back.

"I suppose you don't mind if I burn these then?" he asked.

"I don't care." Elizabeth shrugged, frowning at him from over her shoulder.

"And what of these?" Lord Beckett suddenly asked – holding up a different collection of letters, tied with a blue ribbon. "From the Dowager Duchess of Southampton? Catherine Swann."

Elizabeth froze at the name and title, glaring hungrily at the letters Lord Beckett held. Catherine Swann was her Aunt, her closest living relative. Those letters were the most valuable to her of the whole lot. Her stomach twisted – her husband, damn him, had won yet again. She couldn't allow him to burn them, whatever he demanded.

"Shall I burn these too?" he asked, holding them perilously close to the candle.

Elizabeth threw her cloak to the floor angrily and walked back to the exact spot she'd been standing in not two minutes earlier – right in front of Lord Beckett's desk. He gazed up at her with a barely discernible smirk, as she stood there waiting for his command. How he loved teasing her and testing that vicious temper of hers.

"These letters are clearly more valuable than the previous ones." He said, waving them softly in his grasp, "…and therefore the payment I require will be substantially superior." Elizabeth rolled her eyes,

"Just say it." She snapped – fed up with his flowery language dance around the innuendo.

"Fuck me and they're yours." He said plainly – pushing the tied pile of letters across the desk towards her.

"Done." Her cheeks flushing red momentarily as she caught the subtle erotic allusion in his cold eyes.

_These letters better be bloody worth it_, she thought to herself as she walked slowly around the desk to where her husband sat. She felt reluctant as she turned the corner of the desk - as she always did with him. Her lips dried, and when she swallowed she felt the dry click of her throat – she wasn't alien to such encounters, but with Lord Beckett, she never knew what to expect from him. She stopped right before him – staring down at him as he sat at ease in his chair, glaring up at her coldly, waiting for her to react. Which was incidentally what she was waiting for _him_ to do.

When he moved suddenly – reaching one arm to the small of her back and pulling her towards him, she gasped. She fell against him, her bare breasts crushed against his chest whilst her straight legs leant delicately between his. Her hands held his shoulders for support whilst she found herself glaring wide eyed at her husband from no more than a couple of inches. Her lower lip hung open as she stared at him – unable to move, his hand resting on the tender skin of her lower back, his thumb stroking circles. She frowned - swallowed a lump in her throat - as she fisted handfuls of the shoulder part of his silk waistcoat and cotton shirt. Her limbs ached from the awkward restraint she held for fear of sinking into him. What now? She wondered, though she needant have worried – for before she knew it, Beckett had closed the gap – tugging her a little closer and possessing her lips in an assertive, greedy gulp.

Elizabeth breathed him in, taken aback as he sucked on her shaking lower lip, nipping it teasingly before plundering her whole mouth with his tongue. The dizzy scent of ink, candles and port filled her head – whilst his hands sprawled her bare back, tracing her spine and the tips of soft blonde locks. They never kissed, never. Other than the short, tidy, concise kiss she'd once experienced from him one morning after sex. Although it had taken her back, it was so very him – but this long, languorous embrace was unusual. It was too soft, too slow – deceitful, holding meanings that she knew weren't there.

Desperate to override it, she kissed him back – furious to control the kiss, and turn it into what it was – simple lust. She attempted to swallow him whole, sucking wildly on his bottom lip, biting it and wantonly thrusting her tongue – licking and lunging till he willingly returned the passionate fervor. His hands holding the soft bow of her hips – clasping handfuls of soft skin. She moaned, partly in artifice, partly for the sudden true desire that coiled tight in the pit of her stomach.

Soon she felt him firm against her abdomen, and felt his fingers caressing the waistband of her pantalettes – wrenching them to her ankles in one sharp shove. She sunk against him gladly as she continued to kiss him, moving her hands from the security of his shoulders feather-lightly up his neck and burying themselves beneath his wig and into the cropped brown hair. The wig fell sadly to the floor beside them – ignored along with the letters, as they continued their desirous clinch in the darkness of the EITC office.

Elizabeth held onto the chair as she suddenly straightened up – standing in only her stockings as she maneuvered herself to straddle him, pinning him to his wretched chair with her thighs. Strong erotic authority flooded her senses abruptly as she gazed down at him with a hint of a smirk. For once, did she hold ultimate control over the situation? He stared back at her, the detached, cool glance he often gave – which danced morbidly from her breasts to her navel. His hands forced her breasts against his lips – emitting breathy sighs from her softly parted lips, desire pooling beneath the juncture of her thighs. She grinded against him wantonly – aching desire drowning their complex relationship for one moment.

Previously languid, Beckett sat up suddenly – seizing her torso tight against his as his lips stroked across her collar bone – her skin flushing as he bit down unexpectedly, and groaned deep into her flesh. Desperate, Elizabeth reached through the heat between them – tucking at the waistband of his breeches before taking him inside her with one deep, downward lunge. He buried a deep moan in her neck as she moved – lifting and grinding to a frantic pace, his lips tracing the curve of her shoulder and hot breaths bristling though her hair. He tore through molten humidity, each lunge bringing him closer and closer to that ultimate erotic echelon of pleasure.

He stroked blindly down the soft facade of her torso, thumbing her breast coolly before torturing the raw, swollen flesh where she throbbed ardently. Elizabeth bit back a trembling moan as her thighs tightened and her back arched involuntarily against him. He smirked proudly into the hollow of her neck as her nails dug deep into his shoulders. Soon, a crippling scream cracked from the base of her spine – sharp wave after wave engulfing her as she bit the sky – moaning from the pit of her stomach for each sensation he dragged from her.

Drowsily, when the 'transaction' was complete – Elizabeth slipped away, collecting her clothes briskly and replacing them even quicker. Strangely, she felt embarrassed as she finally engulfed herself within the safety of her velvet cloak – embarrassed she'd given in and confused for how she'd enjoyed it – every minute. Without so much as a word or glance in Lord Beckett's direction, she walked quickly to the office door – eager to escape.

"Just a minute Elizabeth." Came the silky voice from the back of the room

She looked over her shoulder, wondering what else he could possibly want from her. He stood up from his chair – tidy, yet still wigless from their fiery embrace, and walked towards her, holding something in his hand.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he said, stopping in front of her.

"What?" she blushed, avoiding his gaze.

"Your letters." He said with a delicate smirk as he held them up in front of her.

Elizabeth caught his smug gaze and snapped – sneering at him as she snatched the bundle of letters from his hand.

"Goodnight…_my 'lord_.'" She retorted sarcastically, before storming from the office.

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**More soon :)**


	5. Night

**Disclaimer - **I own only the chaotic smut in my mind and the yummy prose that flows from my fingers... I do NOT own Pirates of the Caribbean, nor do I own Elizabeth Swann... and sadly, neither do I own Lord Beckett. So please don't sue, I really am a hungry student :

**Comments -** Much love **Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess** for your lovely review(s) :) I definately have a soft spot for a clueless, stubborn Elizabeth and an all knowing Beckett as seen in the 'listening intently' scene ala Dead Mans Chest. :) Just too much fun! Thanks also to everyone else who's reading, hope you're enjoying. There's plenty more to come.

I suppose this offering could be considered the first of a two parter. First comes 'Night,' and then 'Day,' which I'll post soon. Enjoy!

I'm not going to apologise for the smut that follows, only stress that it is smut and if Beckabeth isn't your cup of tea, best look away. :)

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part V - 'Night'**

Evenings seemed to drag longer than the days Elizabeth spent locked up in the Governors House of Port Royal – which was peculiar seeing as there were more hours of daylight than darkness. Night time when she was the governors daughter meant hours to be alone and do whatever she wanted, whether it be reading from one of her favourite books, watching her father finger through parchments he'd signed that day, chatting to one of the maids or simply curling up in bed with a cup of hot chocolate – a popular gift her father had ordered sent from Britain for Elizabeth to enjoy. But since returning from her adventures and pirating, everything had changed. Lord Beckett ran a strict household as well as a strict business – making sure the staff worked around a tight schedule to keep things running smoothly. The man of the house always returned promptly at 8 o clock by which time dinner had to be laid out on the table ready to eat, and Elizabeth was expected to be seated. The dinner was always a hearty meal of meat (usually poultry or pork) and two vegetables (usually beans, potato or carrots) – washed down with fine red wine. Husband and wife usually sat in virtual silence. Lord Beckett always asked what Elizabeth had been up to during the day – and Elizabeth would always answer with some sarcastic remark.

Afterwards, Lord Beckett would retire to his private study alone to work, smoke and read. Usually ordering tea at 10 o clock and following it with Brandy at 11. Meanwhile Elizabeth would twiddle her fingers in the library reading book after book or staring out of the window longingly – into the dark jungle and at the starry sky. By 11 o clock she usually found herself bored enough to hurry the next day in by going to bed early – spending half an hour getting out of her heavy clothes before she could sink into the sheets. At midnight, her husband would join her in bed; and at midnight, Elizabeth would pretend to be fast asleep.

It was all mind numbingly boring. Always the same routine, never changing, and Elizabeth got sick of it. Every day was the same – each one of them merging into one long, dull existence. It had only been two months! The thought of being locked up in her own house, enduring the same every day 'till death us do part' was driving her insane. She'd barely been outside since coming home from the wedding. Her skin, once bronzed from days out in the sun had turned back to a milky white – the blonde streaks in her hair fading away slowly.

But tonight was different. Everything had gone perfectly to routine until midnight. Elizabeth frowned, tapping her fingers across her arms as she sat up in bed, sheets curled around her waist and a candle burning by her side. She stared at the golden French miniature clock sitting next to it – watching as the clock struck 1 o clock. Lord Beckett was late.

Elizabeth exhaled violently – indicating to an empty audience how irritated she was. Yet she couldn't work out exactly why she was so irritated. Bedtime wasn't exactly the highlight of her day – it was a daily trial, and her verdict was always the same. _Traitor_. Why didn't she just go to sleep? Enjoy having the entire bed to herself for once. But she couldn't, she was wide awake. She could only come to the conclusion that she'd become so used to the rigid schedule Lord Beckett enforced that when it was broken – she became confused and unnerved. All kinds of strange and absurd excuses waltzed around her head as to why Beckett was late. Maybe he'd been murdered? Maybe one of the servants had gotten sick of him and poisoned his tea? Maybe he was drunk? _No, no of course not_. Maybe he was working, or perhaps, he'd simply just decided to not to visit her tonight?

Elizabeth stared at the door with a tense frown, finally giving up and deciding she was being silly. What did she care if her captor decided not to make his daily appointment to humiliate? She rolled onto her side and blew out the candle beside her bed – noticing how small it had gotten since it was lit at eleven o clock. White wax spilled over the sides of the silver plated holder and onto the mahogany bedside table. She watched the grey smoke curling up into the darkness of her room as she slipped down between the sheets, curling the covers over her shoulders.

But it was far too hot.

As soon as she was lying comfortably she remembered the balmy Caribbean heat. There'd been no storm to break the heat in over a week, and each night was an uncomfortable battle between sticky sheets and a breezy open window that let in biting insects. Elizabeth frowned and kicked back the covers angrily, cool air from the swift wave of the sheets fanning her sticky skin. But it was only brief pleasure, the air around her soon regained it's unpleasant clamminess – her nightdress clung to her stomach and back unbearably. She sat up irritably, and decided, for the sake of sleep to undress.

She slipped her cotton night gown over her head, suddenly realising how the hairs at the base of her neck clung damply to her skin, and threw it to the floor. Naked – she climbed out of bed, her feet tapping across the pleasantly cool floorboards as she made her way over to the balcony doors. She carefully parted the light, lace curtains, turned the lock and pushed the balcony doors wide open. White lace billowing into the room lightly as a cool breeze breathed across her bare skin. She glanced briefly out onto the harbour – the horizon dark, stars scattered across the sky and the distant sound of a bell tolling somewhere in the otherwise silent town. Satisfied, she tiptoed back across the room and crawled back into her bed – wrapping the white cotton sheets across her breasts – locking them beneath her arms.

But she still couldn't sleep.

She just couldn't get comfortable – despite the vast expanse of space she had within the large bed, her mind was full of thoughts. But most of all, her body was frustrated – unwilling to relax and succumb to slumber. It had grown so used to being touched and satisfied nightly and now it was suddenly denied – it cried out, feeling deserted. She hated to admit it but though she rolled her eyes irritably and frowned every time Lord Beckett came into her room late at night – he always left her sated and satisfied. As much as she hated her husband, she couldn't deny that the man knew what he was doing behind closed doors and beneath dirty sheets.

Elizabeth rolled onto her back and wondered what her husband would think if he found her sleeping naked. She stroked her hand up her naked torso to rest upon her chest – she found the simple movement and the thought that accompanied it sent an shuddering ache to her core. She soon found her fingers creeping between her thighs and caressing through the hot silken folds. What would her husband think now if he should walk in? What would he do? She thought as she teased her aching body.

She would hate him forever for the imprint he'd left on her, for the control he had over her senses. But no one need know how she needed it. Since no one could read her thoughts, the secret belonged to her and the dark room only.

It didn't take long for the tension deep inside to shatter in a shallow, sharp release. It was over with quickly, but it was enough - Elizabeth drifted off almost immediately into a light slumber, forgetting everything and succumbing to her exhausted limbs.

* * *

Hours later, the bedroom door creaked open. The floorboards buckled with each slow step. The rustle of fabric, of clothes being removed. Elizabeth heard none of it, remaining sound asleep – until she felt him slip into bed next to her and felt his cold hand touch her warm skin.

She stirred, opening her eyes gently as she felt a shudder sweep from the hand resting on her bare hip, up her spine and to the nape of her neck where she felt his hot breath in her hair. She blinked, violently waking and rolling from her side onto her back to see who her intruder was. It was almost too dark to see, but she located his stony eyes, his messy brown hair that hid beneath a wig during the day – and there was his familiar smell, French brandy, tobacco and ink.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" she said sleepily, frowning as she rolled back onto her side – turning her back to him.

"Of course I do." Came the deep whisper in her ear as he curled his body against her bare back – running his cold finger tips from the top of her thigh, over her hip and along the curves of her torso.

Elizabeth blushed, suddenly feeling the heat of his skin against hers and the evidence of rapidly growing desire, hard against the base of her spine. He was naked. She felt her stomach twist a knot, her mouth went dry and a lump swelled deep in her throat. Her body reacted immediately to his touch – ready for more attention. Swallowing hard, she squirmed against him and clenched her thighs together tightly.

"Please, it's late – I'm tired." She begged, trying her best to roll away from him – but his hand moved quickly to her upper arm, holding her against him possessively. "Look, if you were expecting me to oblige you according to the _'contract'_, then perhaps you should have turned up on time." Elizabeth snapped, attempting to wriggle away from him again – but it was no use, he seemed to enjoy the situation more.

As soon as the words slipped past her plump pink lips she mentally smacked herself, clenching her eyes shut with an irritated frown. She paused her fidgeting abruptly – she didn't want him to know she'd been put out.

"Ah…" he whispered, "I kept you waiting did I?"

"Certainly not!" She retorted loudly. She felt a sharp, short breath below her ear – a silent laugh.

"But you mustn't worry, I have no intention of leaving you wanting." He whispered whilst his hand foraged beneath the sheets.

Whatever protest of his arrogance hung from her lips was silenced when she felt him squeeze the soft flesh of her hip before gliding up over her rib cage to fondle a breast.

"Tell me…" he whispered, kissing and sliding the tip of his nose from the top of her neck to her ear, "Why are you sleeping naked?"

"It was hot, I… I couldn't sleep." Elizabeth replied, gasping lightly as she felt him fill his hand with her breast – rolling a nipple between his fingers.

"Hmmm." he replied flatly, the hum of his deep voice filling her ears like the sound of a cello.

He didn't believe her.

Beckett grabbed her wrist, wrenching her hand from beneath the sheets and bringing her fingers to his nose. He inhaled their scent, detecting instantly the bittersweet aroma of feminine desire. Elizabeth flushed scarlet right to the tip of her toes as he dropped her hand in favour of touching her again.

"Who could possibly be the object of such fierce desire, I wonder?" he cooed as he grinded languidly against her back, his arm still wrapped possessively around her torso, his hand caressing every pore of her breasts and through the hot valley between them. "Mr Turner?" he scoffed – partly amused, partly disgusted. Or was it jealousy? "Jack Sparrow?"

"No…. I…" Elizabeth stuttered, mortified by what was happening.

"A former fiancé perhaps?" he continued, his breath prickling the hairs at the nape of her neck – his hand kneading her breast.

"Please, Lord Bec.." she begged, unwilling to endure more drawn out humiliation.

"Or perhaps, dare I say – someone in this very room, right now?" He whispered in her ear seductively whilst his hand trailed leisurely down the centre of her torso and buried itself between her legs.

"Yes." She moaned, in despair rather than confirmation of what he'd said – she could feel a sharp flush flood her cheeks, and warm moisture pool between her thighs as his fingers stroked and teased the swollen flesh there. Helpless, she arched into him.

"Say it." He demanded quietly as he kissed her ear and lightly bit the flesh there, his fingers dipping momentarily inside her. She frowned – a mixture of overwhelming pleasure and anger,

"You're an arrogant bastard." Elizabeth replied. "And I hate you." She added breathlessly, feeling him smirk.

"Your body begs to differ… toppling like a house of cards when I've barely touched it." He said, his voice a deep whisper that sent a shudder right to her core. "Now say it, else I wont indulge it as it would like."

Elizabeth frowned, it angered her when men spoke only in ultimatums, but she found her mind incapable of functioning whilst his fingers worked at her – teasing and taunting till her traitorous body writhed against him for more. The demand was simple, but her pride stood in the way.

"I…" she whispered, a moan escaping her lips as he positioned her body against his – lifting her leg behind and over his thigh, opening her wide with such a simple, swift movement.

"Go on." He repeated – his voice deep, demanding whilst his fingers tested her and coated themselves in molten desire.

"I thought of you." She moaned, flushing red at her admittance.

The moment Elizabeth betrayed her pride, he slid into her from behind in one long agonizing lunge, forcing a deep moan of satisfaction from her lips. He thrust languidly within her whilst his hands continued to tease her breasts and nipples. His lips whispered raw, erotic words in her ear in-between each of his ragged groans – stoking the kindling fire inside her to a roaring blaze. Her breath hitched as his hand returned to the moist junction of her thighs and his slow yet sharp thrusts began to speed to a crescendo, tearing through warm, honeyed flesh. She moaned as tremors shuddered deep in her stomach followed by a sharp moan escaping her dry lips. How on earth could the man she hated erupt such passion inside her? She wondered suddenly in complete desperation. How could she become so horrifying, and frighteningly turned on by such sadistical treatment?

Elizabeth's brow tensed as she felt a flutter of tenderness slammed between them the moment the deep cry broke from the base of her spine. Nails dug into her hips – warm hands seized her hips against a deep, aching final assault, whilst his lips paused at the nape of her neck - muffled moans and incomplete kisses lingering there uncomfortably after he came with one last shuddering thrust.

Elizabeth lay there sated, her limbs luxuriously heavy as she felt the thundering beating in the chest slammed up against her back.

The moment passed swiftly and soon they were both asleep. Beckett's hand still strung around her waist possessively.

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**More soon :) R&R!**


	6. Day

**Disclaimer - The mouse owns all. Amen.**

**Comments-  Thanks to all who reviewed :) Reih - hello! Glad that I've turned you on to Beckabeth - it's just too saucy to ignore. It's my guilty secret inbetween writing chapters for Search for a Past. Thanks for your review by the way, I know - my cliffhanger was absolutely HORRIBLE! Apologies, Chapter 18 is on its way soon! Thanks also to Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess and lock little devil - thanks, there's plenty more of this to come (as long as my writing chaste short stories for UNI work doesn't keep me too busy - grrr).**

**This is the sequel to 'Night' I suppose. I'll be honest, it's not my favourite - gets a bit fluffy if you know what I mean - but meh! Enjoy, there's more to come :)**

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part VI - 'Day'**

Daylight hours were as rigidly organised as those at night.

Morning was Elizabeth's favourite time of day. Around eight o clock, she would wake up alone in her large bed – the sheets, hot and twisted from sleep and Lord Beckett's conjugal nightly visits to her bed. She'd roll across the wide expanse of the empty bed – enjoying the room and the time to herself. Sometimes she'd drift off into a light slumber – her mind vivid with lucid dreams of pirates, Brethren Courts and sandy beaches in the very distant corners of the globe; other times she'd simply lie awake thinking about everything and anything that popped into her sleepy head. At nine o clock, one of the maids would come in to wake and dress her, followed by another maid at ten o clock to serve her breakfast – which was usually either porridge or a boiled egg with soldiers, and a cup of Darjeeling tea. Elizabeth usually just poked and prodded the lumpy porridge with her spoon, and always found her egg either underdone or overdone – she'd never been a huge fan of eating before noon and was satisfied with just the cup of tea and buttered soldiers.

Elizabeth never really knew what Lord Beckett's schedule was like in the morning, he never spent the entire night with her and she'd never been inside his own bed chamber to know. She often wondered, curiously what he was doing whilst she was having her lie in, where he was while she was having her stays laced, and what he was eating when she was sipping her morning tea. She imagined him waking up immediately at eight o clock – **definitely** no leisurely lie ins for the lord and leader of the East India Trading Company. She decided he was probably washed, dressed and shaven by nine o clock, finished with his breakfast by half past and sitting at his desk in the EITC offices promptly at ten o clock.

But this morning, the order had been overthrown. The schedule sensationally shattered.

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open, a little later than usual, at nearly nine o clock. She yawned and lifted her arms behind her head – her eyes slowly growing accustomed to the morning light flooding in through the curtains. The soft breeze left them fluttering into the room, and she could hear the sound of seagulls squawking in the distance. She sighed and smiled to herself lightly. Another day. Despite the belief that every day as Lady Beckett was to be dull, boring and monotonous – Elizabeth held on to the hope that one day she would wake up to a morning that would be different – where something exciting would happen. Just as it did on that day two years ago when she met Captain Jack Sparrow. The outlook was bleak, but Elizabeth couldn't help being a secret optimist.

Just as she began to mentally decide what she was going to do that day, and think up strategies of annoying her husband – she heard someone breathing heavily beside her. She blinked and carefully rolled onto her side; the part of the bed beside her that she usually found bare and vacant every morning wasn't as empty as it usually was. As she lay on her side she came face to face with Lord Beckett – sleeping. The white sheets were resting softly over the bare flesh of his waist – his torso twisted sleepily on its side as he lay there – arms curled up and resting on the pillow beside his head and the silent features of his face. Elizabeth followed the contours of his torso curiously – taking in everything from the specific colour of his skin to the top of his arm and shoulder – swollen slightly from his private hobby for sword fighting. It was a feature usually disguised by the clothes he wore. His usually hidden brown hair was completely out of character – messy and tousled from sleep and his jaw was dotted with the dark shadow of facial hair.

Elizabeth frowned. Why hadn't he returned to his own chambers after his visit the previous evening? He never slept in her bed. Despite her sudden confusion and alarm at the peculiar, uncharacteristic circumstances – Elizabeth couldn't help but stare. It was strange seeing someone who, during waking hours, never exhibited even a slight hint of vulnerability, look so vulnerable. There were no cold eyes, no knowing smirks, no intrusive gazes – just peace.

"Stop it." He said, his deep voice cutting morbidly through the silent room.

Elizabeth dropped her jaw; his eyes remained closed, he didn't move his body – only his lips moved, and even then they barely parted and fluttered. They remained frustratingly taut. Lord Beckett was a master of intimidation – so much so, he could apparently do it with his eyes closed.

Elizabeth didn't quite know what to do. Close her eyes and pretend to be asleep and ignorant, roll over and give in to the fact he knew she was awake – or attempt some sort of biting, courageous remark. But in the time it took to decide a course of action, Lord Beckett's eyes had opened sleepily and were staring directly at her. She snapped her open mouth shut and blinked at him as he stared at her.

"It's rude to stare." He said, his eyelids still visibly heavy from sleep, and his voice just a gruff whisper. Elizabeth frowned,

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, her eyes narrow.

"Sleeping…or at least I was, until I felt you gawking at me." He replied, quirking an eyebrow.

"Ugh." Elizabeth replied, rolling her eyes and turning her back to him. "Well perhaps if you'd returned to your own bed chamber after intruding on mine last night then maybe my gawking wouldn't have woken you."

Staring into nothing Elizabeth sighed and wondered what it might have been like had she been married to Will. How they'd wake up late in the morning in each others arms, talk about everything – people and places, the future, and then they'd kiss and make love and everything would be perfect – just like a fairytale. The reality was certainly not a fairytale – it was more like a tragic comedy. Cruel and ironic.

"Besides, shouldn't you be up and about by now?" Elizabeth continued, noticing the small ornate clock on the side of the bed striking nine o clock. "You'll be late for your daily destruction of innocent lives."

Lord Beckett scoffed – a light, sharp exhalation of breath, a smug laugh. Though Elizabeth couldn't see his face, she knew what the look was. Condescending amusement, and what always followed it was something predictable. He always had to have the final word. His arm snaked roughly around her waist and forced her flat onto her back, and before Elizabeth could gasp or utter a word in protest, he'd rolled on top of her and trapped both her wrists above her head. They were both still naked, having been far too lazy to put clothes on before going to sleep the night before. Elizabeth frowned up at him as she felt him hard against her belly – she'd never made love (if that was what you called it) in the morning, it seemed however, that that was about to change. She didn't want to – the morning had become **her** time over the past few months. She didn't react well to it being intruded upon.

"Someone seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed." He commented dryly, the weight of his body crushing their pelvises together.

"Someone seems to have woken up **in** the wrong bed." Elizabeth winced as she wriggled – but she could barely hold back the smirk that followed it, she'd never reveal to anyone how she just happened to enjoy their constant competitive banter.

Elizabeth put it down to boredom. She'd never actually seen Lord Beckett lose his temper, or lose his composure – and it had become somewhat of a subconscious challenge to lure it out. She took satisfaction in teasing him and testing his temper. But she would never be completely satisfied until she watched him unravel, and had succeeded in dragging some sort of emotional peak from the stony depths of her husband's soul.

But this morning she wasn't interested in challenging him to a battle of snark. She wanted time alone – it wasn't enough he intruded on her most nights, now he wanted to take the mornings from her too? Looking to her side she anxiously noticed the time creeping quickly past nine o clock – her maids would be visiting shortly to dress her and bring her breakfast. The thought of them walking in and seeing Lord Beckett at her sent a nervous shudder through her body that flipped her stomach on its way to her toes.

"Please…" she swallowed, her hands clenching fists within his grasp worriedly. "Molly will be here any minute to…"

"And why would that be a problem I wonder?" he drawled – his face so close, his breath stroked across her dry lips – parted in horror. Elizabeth, blinked,

"If you try anything I'll scream so loud that…" she said – her tone as threatening as she could make it.

"… that you'll irritate the servants." He corrected. Dark eyes glaring at her, a smug expression.

Elizabeth stared up at him with a childish pout – a look halfway between a frown and flooding tears. Lord Beckett's was unreadable as ever and blurred slightly from the close proximity of his face – which disappeared without warning when his parted lips seized her own possessively. Still gripping her wrists tight above her head – he grinded his hips into her own, an agonizing pace – that forced her to keep up with him as he grinded against the sensitive apex of her thighs. A fierce, and throbbing ache screamed from the pit of her abdomen – demanding attention. His hands still held her wrists tight into the mass of blonde curls sprawled on the pillow behind her – like a halo circling her sleepy head. His body crushed into her breasts, forcing short, awkward breaths from her chest with each soft pulse – each one becomingly more like moans and gasps as the torturous pressure between her thighs swelled into an angry urgency for the fulfilled promise of pleasure.

He buried his head in the nook of her neck, tracing the curve of her collar bone with his lips – biting, licking and sucking the hot skin – breathing in the scent of sleep and hazy desire that clung there. Elizabeth frowned over his shoulder and glared anxiously at the door – just waiting for it to click open dramatically. The anxiety confused her body – the swell of fear in her stomach mixing with pleasure until she couldn't tell the difference. It was exciting, yet uncomfortable… and speaking of uncomfortable – other than admittedly enjoying the weight of Lord Beckett on top of her, the position wasn't too agreeable. He was crushing her body into the bed – crushing her chest and the breaths with it. Her legs were poker straight and her knees ached, her hands were sweating – permanently clenched into fists as he held her wrists possessively above her head. In an effort to make things more comfortable and to hurry the situation along, Elizabeth wriggled and managed to release her legs from beneath his – opening them, her thighs parting – listing comfortably from each side of his waist. The soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thighs and their humid juncture welcomed him – locking him in with her thighs as he settled there and finally lunged forcefully through shuddering flesh.

Fucking (yes, that's what it was, wasn't it?) during daylight was so different to how it was at night. There was no artificial light to soften the visibility of the situation – the candlelight that added some sort of magical, golden aura of perfection to the situation. There was no darkness to shut reality out, or give the mind chance to fantasise into a different situation – to imagine a difference face and body doing those things to her. And sleep beyond wasn't allowed – no chance to rest, forget and pretend it was a dream. The light made everything so clear and the dark reality was unavoidable. Light from the window flooded the room and the bed, Beckett's features were clear – no candlelight softened them and darkness couldn't mask them.

Defiance didn't last long, her mind soon sunk into the reality and her body took over – enjoying everything from the hands pinning her to the bed and the friction the close clinch and thrusting caused, to the brutal honesty of the situation. No candlelight, fantasies or fairytales. Just animalistic passion and everything that went with it. It was mindlessly erotic.

Dazed satisfaction soon washed over her, a fast, crippling tide of shudders and screams followed by his final deep thrust to end it all. They stared at one another – Elizabeth lay paralysed, Lord Beckett still loosely holding her wrists above her head. He was panting, his chest compressing her breasts with each ragged breath. Then he did the most curious thing, he kissed her – a sudden, soft kiss that surprised her. Elizabeth lay still, her eyes wide open as she watched him kiss her, the rough shadow of hair around his lips grazing the skin between her upper lip and the red tip of her nose. She stared at him when he pulled out and didn't look at her – simply rolling to the side and slipping out of the twisted sheets without one single snarky comment. She sat up in the bed, curling the sheets around her naked torso and twisting a finger through her ruffled tresses as she watched him pick up his dressing gown. He slipped it on and walked to the door, before resting his hand on the handle and hesitating momentarily.

"Dinner will be at nine o clock tonight." He said, staring at the door handle as he spoke in his usual deep drawl. "Don't be late."

Elizabeth stared, utterly bemused as he opened the door and walked out. As soon as the door had closed, it creaked open again and her two morning maids walked inside, giving a quick curtsey. Their heads were lead weighted to the floor – both of them unwilling to look up at their mistress, their cheeks flush and their lips pursed together. To keep from giggling perhaps? They'd heard, Elizabeth decided and she flushed slightly at the thought.

**More soon :)**


	7. Lips

**Disclaimer - The mouse owns all. Amen. All I own are the spelling mistakes.**

**Comments- Thanks again to all who reviewed :) Reih - you're very welcome for the shout out and yay for making you feel special. Hooray for spreading the Beckabeth word! Oh and I absolutely LOVE reviewers talking about random stuff - makes me smile! lock little devil, I love the unexpected :) And hey, I reckon Beckett's just passionate about being cold and heartless ;) Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess, the exchanges between Lizzie and Beckett are just the most fun to write - thanks for the reviews :)**

**I really should be doing work... but meh :P Goes without saying really: smut ahead, if Beckabeth aint your cup of tea then best look away now.**

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part VII - 'Lips'**

At exactly three o clock, the door to the Orangery swung open and the sound of afternoon tea came tinkling and clattering through the room; a highly polished brass tea trolley pushed by one of the maids. Upon hearing the approaching sound, Elizabeth lowered her book and watched as it was wheeled through the room, glancing over the items resting on top. A silver jug full of boiling hot water steamed heavily from the spout as it passed, gleaming when dull daylight from the large, white-painted iron windows hit it. The finely decorated cups and saucers rattled against one another as the trolley moved hurriedly across the uneven tiled floor, abruptly silenced when it stopped beside the mossy green easy chair where Lord Beckett sat, flicking idly through his large, leather-bound dictionary.

When the maid's shaking fingers – scrubbed violently clean beforehand – slipped from the rim of the tray, he put the heavy dictionary on a side table with a satisfying thud before languidly raising his cold eyes to glare at her. She waited for acknowledgement; a thank you perhaps, a subtle nod, or something from her wildest dreams: a smile. But instead, he turned his tepid glance to one of the teacups on the tray and picked it up delicately – raising it to eyelevel to inspect the intricate gilt floral design that wrapped the cup. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and smirked to herself as she glanced between the two of them. The poor maid, the last thing she was going to get was a thank you - Elizabeth had memorised the look Lord Beckett gave her, and it always meant trouble.

"Stunning... hand painted Wedgwood… their much sought after Spencer collection," he whispered, carefully placing the teacup back on the tray. "How much, do you think this collection is worth?" he asked the maid, narrowing his cold eyes and stiffening his jaw.

"I… I'm not sure, my lord…" Molly, the often jittery maid replied quietly whilst staring down at the black shoes she'd gotten up extra early to polish, in an effort to avoid his gaze, "…a lot?" she added.

"A lot." he repeated, quirking a sardonic eyebrow, "…it's worth more than you, do you understand?" he said darkly, "So next time you decide to wheel it carelessly, bare that in mind."

"Oh, my lord… I'm so sorry, please…I…" she apologised franticly, twisting her starched apron with her anxious fingers.

Beckett silenced her hysterics by raising a hand then abruptly turned from her, reaching for the tea trolley. Molly's brow clenched when she realised he meant her to leave, and immediately turned on her heel to flee the room. Elizabeth, who had watched the entire thing, gave her a sympathetic look as she passed, noticing the tears welling in the poor maid's eyes.

"…and if I notice a single chip or mark on this porcelain, the reparations will come from your wages," he called after her.

Elizabeth widened her eyes and dropped her lower lip as she glanced from the shutting door to her callous husband, who sat forward in his seat fiddling with ornate silver strainers and teaspoons. How could he be so cruel? It wasn't Molly's fault the trolley had clattered slightly, indeed, perhaps it was his own fault for not re-tiling the Orangery.

It hadn't changed much since she'd left the previous summer. It had once been her favourite place to sit and read with its view of the sloped ornamental garden and the rolling waves of bare, open ocean in the distance. Admittedly, it was currently in a state of neglect. The white paint of the wrought iron window framework had begun to peel and flake, the windows were cloudy - their sills hopelessly dusty. The potted fruit trees and plants that were too delicate to be placed outside in the harsh, tropical sunlight and occasional downpours had begun to turn brown, and their fallen leaves now scraped across the cool tiled floor.

Elizabeth found it strange that Lord Beckett hadn't ordered the room to be redecorated and brought into better condition. He seemed to hate when rooms weren't up to his impeccable standard – and she wondered why the state of the Orangery didn't seem to bother him, but then the only time he went in there was late on a Sunday afternoon for a couple of hours. He always brought a dictionary with him and flicked through it – something Elizabeth always found completely bizarre – whilst he waited for afternoon tea to be brought, and he always insisted that his wife join him. She would take a book from the library, usually some adventure novel that would whisk her far, far away, and commandeered the silky chaise longe in the corner – the place where the most sunlight entered the room. They'd read in silence, drink tea, Elizabeth would fall asleep in her chair - the book spread across her chest - and when she awoke at sunset, her husband would be gone. She wouldn't see him until later when the whole house had gone to sleep and her bedroom door would awkwardly creak open.

This week, it was Treasure Island's turn to have its pages soaked with afternoon sun, except that today it just happened to be raining. It was one of those late afternoon storms that broke when the air grew too humid, the sand burned underfoot and the crickets and insects in the scorched tall grass screamed. The sun would shy behind a heavy grey cloud, a cool breeze would rustle through the palm trees and then suddenly, it would be appear – the rain and thunder all at once. Now, the torrential rain slid along the glass roof above and ran in streaks down the tall windows; it had made the room feel so dark and grey that Lord Beckett had ordered candles to be brought.

Elizabeth frowned at him while he turned over two tea cups and carefully placed a silver tea leaf strainer across the diameter of each rim.

"You absolute wanker," she said through gritted teeth, shaking her head when his eyes flashed coldly in her direction.

"Something wrong?" he drawled ignorantly.

"How could you talk to her like that? It was only a set of bloody teacups and besides, the floor's hopelessly uneven," she shouted, thrusting an angry finger at the cracked floor tiles. "I understand you get some disgusting enjoyment from playing the tyrant, but that's just ridiculous," she said harshly as she lifted her book to continue reading.

"You would rather I didn't chastise the servants," he said, spooning dried tealeaves into each silver tea strainer.

"I would rather you didn't shout at them for something so meaningless," Elizabeth said softly with her all-knowing smile – the one she always used when she felt she had the upper hand, "…how can you possibly expect people to follow you when you treat them like the ground you walk on?"

"Ah…I see, you would choose love and devotion over respect and trepidation from those who serve you," he said, a slight curl in his lips as he lifted the silver jug and poured hot water over the tea leaves and into one of the cups.

"Always," Elizabeth replied, blushing slightly at her words, she knew he was mocking her – oh he was always mocking her.

"Surprising," he smirked slightly,

"Why?" she blinked.

"Well, considering your pirating past Elizabeth, your answer was positively domestic."

Elizabeth glowered at him as he continued to pour hot water into his tea cup. His eyes were buried in the depths of the cup, deciding not to look at her. Imaging the look of contempt on her face was often far more fun than actually seeing it, mostly because when he failed to grace her with a glance she became more annoyed – and that was precisely how he liked her. Pouting, breathing heavily, sweating venom, glaring rabidly, cocking pistols under his chin, clenching her fists in his grasp and raking her claws down his back like perturbed feline.

When Elizabeth noticed the quirk in his lips as he lifted the tea pot, she had to force herself to take a deep breath and ignore him. She bit down on her trembling lower lip and fell back into her seat with a huff, lifting Treasure Island so high that it hid her face: the flushed cheeks, the furrowed brow and her pursed pink lips. She knew releasing her anger would only satisfy him, but she was never satisfied in letting him have the final word.

"I hate you," she snapped from behind the book, regretting the words as soon as she'd said them, feeling she needed to immediately explain the pointless stab at him clearer. "You're… ridiculous."

"Tea?" he asked condescendingly while she glared into the text of her book 'til the words blurred. Finally, she rolled her eyes and sighed,

"Please."

She sat up and shut her book, placing it on the seat beside her while she waited for her cup. As he poured the steaming water over the silver strainer that straddled her cup, she watched the action closely. The hot water crackled and bubbled as it hit the cool porcelain of the dainty teacup, the colour changing to a deep bronze as it blended with the delicate Darjeeling tea leaves (the correct choice for afternoon tea). Then, he swapped the jug for the tiny sugar tongs, picking a small cube from the matching pot and holding it over her cup. He glanced up and looked at her for a moment, and when she shook her head he dropped the sugar cube instead into his own cup with a light plop. She sat forward in her seat and took her tea, neglecting to hold the saucer as most people did – she'd always found it a pointless accessory anyway – instead, she curled her fingers around the elaborate handle and placed her other palm flat against the belly of the cup. The warmth emanated through her hand as she lifted it to her lips and held the rim beneath her nose – closing her eyes as she deeply inhaled the scent of the steamy mélange inside.

_Oh God… Tea…_ she thought deliriously to herself.

Its scent flooded her senses and bristled down her spine, the same soothing shudder and comforting sigh she recognised when she sunk into a hot bath, or – though she hated to admit it – enjoyed after sex. She could forget everything with a cup of tea; from the first satisfying sip her strained thoughts would gradually begin to disappear, right up to the final desperate gulps from the bed of the cup where a few strong tasting, rogue tealeaves swirled. Soon she wanted to take a sip, but hesitated wondering whether it would burn her tongue. She almost instantly decided to proceed however, curling her lips around the rim of the cup and then slowly tilting it upward.

The hot liquid lapped against her upper lip, before tentatively filling her mouth. The taste was delicate and refreshing, but bitter enough that it clung to the tip of her tongue long after she'd swallowed. She felt the warm deluge as it rushed down her throat and heated her body instantly – a flush creeping across her cheeks as she tilted her head back and sighed deeply, parting her rosy lips for a voiceless 'oh.'

The first sip was always the best. As with most things, it was the anticipation of that made it so satisfying; like the first bite into an apple, or the very first, longed-for kiss between naked flesh. But now it was over, and she'd return to her book for a while before taking another.

When she opened her eyes, she glanced sideways at her husband when she noticed he was staring at her intently, holding his cup and saucer midair. Elizabeth clenched her brow and blinked at him, carefully wiping clinging droplets of tea from her top lip with her thumb.

"What?" she asked, wondering what he was staring at.

He flinched almost invisibly when she spoke, snapping his mouth shut and glancing down into his teacup. Holding the saucer in one hand and the cup delicately with the other, he raised it and blew on the hot tea with pursed lips before taking a careful sip.

"Finish your tea," he replied, his eyes flashing a short, dark glance in her direction, his request not far from a demand.

Elizabeth frowned and pursed her lips, finding his tone bizarre; but she did as he'd told her – lifting the cup and drinking, watching him from over the rim whilst she did so. He watched her just as intently; from her lithe fingers clutching the cup, to her dark eyelashes that fluttered when she swallowed the final bitter mouthful. When her lips slipped from seizing the rim of the teacup, he grinned to himself for a brief moment. She placed the teacup back onto the trolley, lifted Treasure Island and then eyed him suspiciously over the book while he drank his own tea.

He held the cup and saucer so elegantly – though 'properly', was probably the better word to describe it. He'd grown up in polite society that grumbled when you used the wrong fork out of nine mind numbing choices, that pronounced cucumber as 'cowcumber' (though Elizabeth was thankful Beckett didn't adopt that particular trait), and where people glared when your teaspoon tapped against the cup. Drinking tea to them was far more about performance and style than it was about taste and pleasure. But holding the cup was where Lord Beckett's similarities with them ended.

Elizabeth watched as he lifted the teacup smoothly toward his lips and noted the way his lips parted to receive it – an open mouthed kiss between lip and cup, oh so familiar to the way his mouth often seized her shaking lower lip that she blushed. She narrowed her eyes as he slowly tilted the cup and began to drink, imagining his lips becoming moist with tea and biting her lip when she noticed his throat clench with each deep gulp - each breathless clack comparable to when she boldly kissed his neck during her occasional and often irrational fits of bewildering desire. She felt her cheeks burn and suckled on her lower lip while she continued the secret voyeur over the pages of her book. She felt her eyes flutter shut and relished in the sudden memory of several nights before – where he'd untied the blue satin ribbons of her silk stockings, removed them and dragged his lips up her naked thighs from the inside of her knees slowly to their warm, wet apex. She imagined him doing the very same, right where she sat – his lips warm and wet from tea. She clenched her thighs to quell the first soft swell of desire in her core and opened her eyes softly, her eyelids heavy.

When he brought the cup down – swallowing the final mouthful and dragging his wet lips from the cup – he felt her gaze and looked up, catching her brown eyes just as she startled and looked away, immersing her eyes in the security of her book. Beckett smirked to himself as he placed his empty cup and saucer onto the trolley and stood up to wander.

Elizabeth eyed him apprehensively as he crossed the room, stopping at the foot of her chaise long with his hands held behind his back as he looked out the window. She found his behaviour confusing, never knowing where it would lead. There was always that subtle smirk, eyes that quirked and glinted – that was when she wished she could see inside his mind, and know what he was thinking and what he had planned next. It was like watching a coiled viper, waiting for it to suddenly strike. She sat painfully upright, her spine ruler straight – partly due to her restrictive stays – and linked her legs at the ankles.

Beckett felt her nervous glances against his back and grinned haughtily whilst he looked out the window. The storm raged on; palms swayed against the wind and rain beat down on the windows – the perfect afternoon for books and hot tea, he thought to himself, and for other things…

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**More soon :)**


	8. Taste

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Disclaimer -

The mouse owns all. Amen. All I own are the spelling mistakes.The mouse owns all. Amen. All I own are the spelling mistakes.

**Comments- Thanks again to my lovely reviewers :) lock little devil, I have a suspicion that you're going to hate me for the cliffhanger at the end of this chapter too :P Mrs.Depp - thanks so much, you're too kind. I'm glad I'm among the writers who get Beckett right - I think he's one of the pirate characters who sounds terrible when he's written OOC - so I do try to get him as spot on as I can :) Live for the Dream - thanks for reading! The Beckett/Lizzie fandom is pretty much non existent I've found, so I felt like trying it out myself ;) hehe. Still working on the next chapter of Search btw - should be up soon hopefully.**

**Again, I really should be doing work but this chapter really is a lead on from the previous one - 'lips' - so I thought I'd just go ahead and post it :) Enjoy!**

**Goes without saying really: smut ahead - shamelessly naughty (I think), if Beckabeth aint your cup of tea then best look away now.**

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part VIII - 'Taste'**

"This weather is strange…" he said, his deep drawl piercing through the room.

"Mmm… yes, very gloomy," Elizabeth replied indifferently, pretending to be engrossed in her book though her eyes constantly darted sideways at her husband.

"How's your book?" he asked, watching rain glide smoothly down his reflection.

"Very entertaining," she replied, even turning a page for effect whilst she continued to watch her husband curiously.

"That's interesting…" he smiled predatorily at his reflection, before turning to face her.

"Interesting? Why?" she said while staring at him sarcastically, knowing a clever comment was to follow.

"I say interesting because I personally wouldn't describe books as _entertaining_ when they're read upside down," he smirked.

Elizabeth blinked and pursed her lips in a bemused sort of way before returning to look at the book she held. The words were such a mess that it looked as though it were written in a foreign language. _Bollocks_, she inwardly swore, furious with herself. Flustered, she stiffened her jaw and angrily flipped the book around the right way, glaring rabidly at her husband as she did so. He watched her reaction intently, smugly with an arrogant grin. Once turned the right way, Elizabeth abruptly snapped the book shut and placed it beside her. She placed her hands firmly in her lap and looked forward, trying desperately not to blush and tightening her lips to silence her heavy breaths.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you had something on your mind…" he said, his voice slick and heavy as he took a couple of steps toward her.

"I don't know what you mean," Elizabeth replied, lifting her chin.

"Oh I think you do…"

Elizabeth shifted her weight awkwardly when she felt him move between the chair and tea trolley and sit beside her, his eyes taking a lazy promenade from her face – the eyes veiled by black lashes while transfixed to the floor – across her breasts, to the hands that fidgeted nervously in her lap. He was too close; he'd placed his arm across the back of the chair and leaned in close 'til she could hear his breaths and smell the aftershave that clung to his warm skin. She always shuddered when that scent filled her, and a sharp flush immediately rose beneath her cheeks. Close proximity with him was unnerving and that scent always filled her with a strange desire for what she new always came next.

"…You certainly haven't been reading…" he whispered; his voice thick, his breath cool against her neck, "…so perhaps you'll tell me instead what it is you've been thinking about that could have distracted you from such an _'exciting'_ book."

"Nothing…I was just…" Elizabeth replied, her voice cracking. "Oh for God's sake…" she snapped, sending Beckett her most venomous glare as she attempted to stand and walk away from him.

He caught her by the elbow and roughly forced her to sit back down before she'd barely begun to rise. She fell into the seat so fiercely the chair moved, its feet screeching across the tiled floor.

"We'll start with something simple then, shall we?" he whispered, staring coolly against her infuriated glare and petulantly ever-pouting lips, "…How far south that blush of yours has spread, for example…"

His voice, the words and that masculine scent caused a prickling heat to rush from her abdomen to her cheeks. She was sure her face was not far from the colour of pomegranate, and she attempted to choose her words that followed _very_ carefully.

"I don't know what you're talking about…" she stuttered, attempting to hold her breath; but they were deep gasps and when she tried to hold them she felt dizzy, "It's very hot in here, that's all," she added. "…what with the tea as well…"

"Well that's something that can be easily remedied…" he whispered, running the back of his index finger over her satin gown – from the delicate lace at the swell of her breasts, down the rigid bodice to where it ended in her lap from which he moved the hand to rest on her knee.

She felt his triumphant stare when her lashes fluttered and her parted to release a restrained breath. She felt his hand on her knee, half the pressure of it absorbed by her petticoats. But nevertheless the touch was there, affirmed further when she felt his thumb rubbing circles and smoothing the lemon satin of her gown. Her furrowed brow loosened and her hard look grew visibly – if only slightly – softer. It was enough of an invitation for him to continue; he moved slowly and brushed his lips against her neck.

"…couldn't we just… open a window?" Elizabeth frowned, feeling her pulse throb and her breaths become ragged beneath his parted lips as he made an agonizing descent – dragging them down the soft column of her neck 'til he reached the warm hollow that was neither neck nor shoulder.

"The rain would cause a flood," he whispered impassively, removing his right hand from the back of the chair to the nape of her neck – where he ran a cold finger down her spine 'til he reached the laces of her gown. "Now then,"

"Lord Becket, I…" Elizabeth protested when she felt his fingers interweave with the tight lacing.

"…tell me where you're burning…" he interrupted, the look in his eyes disturbing when he raised his head from her shoulder to look at her.

Elizabeth swallowed hard and shook her head as his gaze flashed south across her décolletage for a bare moment before returning to her lips, transfixed by the rosy lower lip that was parted from the top one. returning to her lips, transfixed by the rosy lower lip that was parted from the top one. There was barely a space between them to break, but it was broken when he seized that lower lip of hers, brushing it with his own languorously. Her brow clenched, agonizing against his onslaught – whether to slap him and rush from the room or to give in. When she felt his fingers teasing the laces down her back loose she arched her back awkwardly, but when the hand on her knee slipped onto her thigh she breathed him in and began to kiss back attempting to regain some sort of control. She could taste the bittersweet flavour of Darjeeling tea on the tip of his tongue and the ragged breaths that passed between them.

She inwardly rolled her eyes at her hopelessly flawed willpower, where the hell had it gone? Sometimes she felt as if she'd lost it bit by bit since her marriage, small parts of her resolve scattered from Singapore to Shipwreck Cove.

Soon, her gown felt loose and she felt him part the undone seams, ripping it down over her shoulders till it lay around her waist; only her stays separating him from her naked torso. She quickly loosened her arms from the sleeves while their kiss became frantic. When he bit down on her lower lip she gasped and fell back in the chair, her head lolling over the gold frame and his lips having no choice but to glide across her raised chin and onto her chest.

"…here..?" he whispered, his warm breath ghosting across her flush skin.

Elizabeth opened her eyes, apprehensively staring up at the glass ceiling where cool rainwater cascaded. _Lower…_ She mentally commanded, hoping he'd read her mind so she didn't have to say it. She bit down on her swollen lower lip when his fingers fiddled with the front of her stays, taking time to torture her over each clasp until he'd unhooked the final one and tore the stays apart. With a barely discernable smirk, his eyes lingered over her bare torso for a moment; its smooth and delicately flushed skin, and her sinuous breasts - their puckered pink tips gently rising and falling with each bashful breath.

Licking his lower lip - amused by his own resourcefulness, Beckett quickly reached to his side and carefully poured a cupful of tea – glancing between the steady trickle of now lukewarm liquid to his indolent wife, who was breathlessly reclined and waiting. He dipped his thumb into the warm liquid before continuing with her, satisfied when he noticed an amber droplet rush precariously to the tip. He brought it to her with a raised eyebrow and placed it strategically between her breasts.

"What about here..?" he asked, lifting his thumb carefully and watching the drop of balmy fluid slide quickly down her torso right to her navel, leaving a glossy streak in its wake and causing a sharp inhalation.

Elizabeth lifted her head and looked down at him through a thick veil of drowsy dark lashes as he leant over her torso and eyed the glossy bead of tea and its wet trail. He lifted his apathetic gaze and staring rapaciously at her as he brought his lips to the exact place where his thumb had been seconds before and began to lick and kiss the wet trail that led to her lower stomach.

"No…" she eventually rasped, watching him closely and hoping that when he reached her navel he wouldn't bother to stop and instead would simply carry on.

To her disappointment, he didn't, and she almost didn't recognise the soft moan of frustration that slipped through her lips. When he reached the edge of the bunched fabric around her waist he followed the trail back up, grazing his dissolute grin over her belly and breasts and up to the hollow of her neck. He seized her lips eagerly while his left hand cupped a breast and wet thumb grazed a nipple. His fingers buried themselves in the warm, supple flesh, and timed each firm clench with the lunge of his tongue and the pressure of those desperate squeezes with the force of his lips.

Elizabeth released a despairing breath, so wretched with desire she felt reckless and lifted her hands; one grasping for the back of his neck, the other touching his cheek; her fingers grazing over what felt like sand on silk – the dark shadow of a forgotten morning shave. He didn't want her clinging to him however, and seized both wrists roughly in one hand while his other dropped to her lap.

He caught a handful of the satin there and aggressively dragged the layers of skirt and petticoat over her knees until the bare flesh of her thighs showed – creamy in the dull light. Almost immediately he buried his hand in their warm apex, forcing the thighs apart when he brazenly slipped it beneath her pantalettes and ran a finger through the sultry desire that pooled there.

"Here?" he whispered against her lips with an invisible smirk.

An answer from her would have been superfluous. He didn't need to hear it and tore his index and forefinger through her warm flesh urgently; stretching her, crooking and stroking, drenching his fingers in sinuous desire. Elizabeth bit her lip when the prickling flush of heat rushed from her abdomen to her cheeks, she closed her eyes tightly and reached behind with both hands to clutch the back of the chaise longe. Her clenching brow, the way she sucked on her lower lip was answer enough to his question. So he kept going, while quietly slipping from his seat beside her to kneel between her thighs, which parted in abandon with each fondle and flick of his fingers.

When he abruptly removed the two fingers and rolled them smoothly over his thumb, she blinked and looked up. _What now?_ She thought, watching his seemingly detached gaze wander to her heavy eyes momentarily, before dropping suddenly and almost addictively to the wet juncture of her thighs. He stroked both hands up her legs until he found the waistband of her pantalettes and violently wrenched them downwards. Unabashed, she lifted her feet from the tiles, slipping them from her shoes and allowing him to pull the cotton undergarment over her knees and past her toes. She watched, bizarrely, as he took a moment to ball them and throw them over his shoulder – before returning to her, and eyeing her darkly as he cupped the soft flesh behind each knee before roughly tugging her body down in the chair until her back was almost flat on the seat. She gasped and couldn't help but giggle lightly as she watched him from over her breasts, smirking wantonly as he bought her thighs over his shoulders and buried his face in her warm, wet aperture.

She couldn't help it when she closed her eyes and attempted to part her legs further, she couldn't help the breathy sighs that gradually became moans that lingered on the air between the sounds of the rain hitting the windows. She was bare to him now, naked and open for him and therefore might as well relax and enjoy it.

Hot breaths, sharp seconds of cool air; long, languid, drugging licks that shuddered up her spine to quick flicks that strategically stabbed each yearning, wet pore. His be-ringed fingers squeezed the flesh on the underside of her thighs 'til it flushed scarlet and felt hot; the blood in her veins throbbing beneath his fingers and struggling towards the tight and swollen seam where his tongue dipped and wriggled along every silken fold and ridge. When the hands smoothed upwards and cupped her buttocks, allowing a deeper penetration - she went mad. She felt tight, hot and wet: drenched, delirious and distressed – her nails raking worried lines in the silk seat of the chair, her cheeks hot and her trembling lips dry from the passage of constant heady and breathless moans.

"There… right there…" she rasped huskily, her voice suddenly bold and demanding when he dragged his lips across her and kissed her molten core.

She lifted herself onto her elbows when her back began to arch; her breasts lunged toward the glass ceiling, breaths becoming greedy gulps between lips that bit the stormy sky. Her eyes fluttered, then shut tightly when she felt the first alarming shudder crack from the base of her spine – she gasped an expletive before the sudden, riotous hot rush rippled through her body from the tip of his tricky tongue through to every prickled follicle on her body.

Undone, Elizabeth rolled her heavy head onto her shoulder and softly opened her eyes to watch her husband, to hope for a vivid expression on his face. She curled her plump lips as she watched him slip his hands from beneath her and softly unhook her legs from his shoulders, rising slowly to his feet. But his expression was lax, empty as always – the only evidence of what had been was the flush in his cheeks and the way his tongue subtly crept over his moist lips, savouring the taste of her.

Beckett stared at her and smirked slightly, drinking in her expectancy. Knowing that although she was utterly sated – she expected him to continue with her, carry on for his own means. He lifted his shoulders to shrug out of his black coat, to become more comfortable before continuing but was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. While Elizabeth blinked and moved frantically to cover herself with the layers of cotton and satin hitched around her waist, he walked slowly to the heavy white doors that led from the Orangery into the house.

Elizabeth held the dress over her front and sucked on her lower lip as she sat up and peered over the back of the chaise longe. The door creaked open, echoing into the room and revealing Mercer, standing alone carrying a handful of papers in his black gloved hands.

"What?" Lord Beckett snapped, leaning against the door with his hand to prevent his 'minion' (as Elizabeth liked to call him) entering the room.

"Sorry milord… But…" Mercer said, glancing nosily around Beckett to Elizabeth who sat half naked and dishevelled. "But…" he stuttered.

Beckett frowned and snapped his fingers in front of his manservant's face, the sharp click regaining his attention that had seemingly belonged totally to Elizabeth and her sexed state. Mercer blinked and straightened.

"Look at me, not her," Beckett snapped. Elizabeth clutched the back of the chair and slipped down in the seat self-consciously – only her eyes and the top of her head visible.

"Beg your pardon milord," Mercer apologised, "…only there's been an incident I think you'd be interested in…"

Elizabeth frowned as the rest was said in whispers and lowered voices she could neither hear nor understand. She didn't know whether she wanted to hear it or not – she would probably have been disgusted. More arrests, hangings, murders… The usual.

"Alright," Beckett droned, "…give me one moment."

With that, he closed the door with a click and turned on his heel to look at his wife. She was still hiding behind the back of the chair, the way she peered across the room at him almost childlike.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice slicing the sound of the easing rain on the roof.

"We'll continue this later," he replied, "I have something that needs attending to."

Lord Beckett turned around and opened the door again, ready to leave her alone as he always did late on a Sunday afternoon – but before he left the room he stopped and looked at her from over his shoulder.

"Ah yes, there was something," he said coolly. "I've been asked to return to London."

Elizabeth stared after him, astonished as he left the room; her eyes wide and her lips aghast long after the door had shut. _London?_ She turned in the chair and slumped down in her seat. Elizabeth frowned and looked to her side and out of the window – taking in the rain, the swaying palm leaves and rolling waves of the Caribbean.

Did he intend her to go too? To leave Port Royal?

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**More soon :) Evil cliffhanger, I know - I'm awful.**


	9. Restraints

**OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER-** **The mouse owns all. Amen. All I own are the spelling mistakes.**

**COMMENTS-** **Here's smutlet number IX proceeding directly after what lock little devil called 'The Cliffhanger of Doom...' --dodges brick!-- :) I've got nothing against Port Royal, but I have an unhealthy obsession with Georgian London in all its eighteenth century kinkiness. Hehehe! Thanks so much for the lovely comments yet again, my lovely reviewers! l.l.d. - No! Beckett is most definately not leaving Lizzie, as you'll see he'll be taking her kicking and screaming along with him... (I think there's an innuendo in there somewhere...). Amymimi - thanks for the review. You're right, there really is a lack of beckabeth around here as well as a lack of beckett relationship fics. They're tough to find and I often find they're riddled with 'romantic Beckett's' --shudder!!-- I will be continuing with this, it's just too fun to write! Liveforthedream - oh indeed, I do love playing the evil author - hehe! Mrs.Depp - Thanks so much :) You're right, this is turning into a bit of a story and becoming a bit plotty. Totally unintended! But oh well! :) That's so cool about the costume! Have a great time! :)**

**All my university work is over for a while - happy days! Well, until my 20,000 dissertation sneaks up around the corner... oh dear - but for now, hurrah for updates. This one's a bit long and a little different - seeing as I haven't updated in a little while. Enjoy!**

**Goes without saying really: smut ahead - shamelessly naughty (I think), if Beckabeth aint your cup of tea then best look away now.**

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part IX - 'Restraints'**

In a desperate state of boredom, she'd started counting things; the wet and broken floor tiles for example, or the bricks that made up the wall – slick and shining with moisture. She'd inspected and fingered every crack in the wall as well as the links in her shackles; and she'd come up with names for each black rat that scurried past the blackened tips of her toes, seeking morsels of food left on the stained floor of the dank cell. Two whores, three sailors and a peddler swinging from the gallows, one hundred and twenty four bolts in the wrought iron bars, three pock marks on the gaoler's wife's red and sweaty face. She'd attempted to recite her favourite songs and poems, tried to remember the names of every pirate of the Brethren and yet time still seemed to stand still.

Seated on the floor in a dark corner of the cell, she watched one appear from a crack in the wall and scurry across to her cold food plate eager to inspect her abandoned breakfast – cold porridge and a roll of stodgy bread. Elizabeth had taken one look and turned her nose up at it almost as soon as it had been slid beneath the door that morning. The night she'd been shoved into the private and secluded cell by two guards, Mrs Sprogg – the overweight and balding gaoler's wife – had taken great pleasure in serving the secret new inmate her first meal. The instant she'd plodded along the corridor, jingled her large ring of keys and placed the tarnished dinner plate on the floor with a clumsy curtsey, Elizabeth had decided that she'd never touch a single meal that had been prepared by the woman. She'd grimaced when she'd removed her ragged grey wig (which had malted half its hair into the food) and called her 'Lady Beckett,' and more so when she'd advanced towards her with a crooked, toothless grin and spluttered, 'I think your husband's rather dishy your ladyship, if you don't mind my saying so.' So instead, Elizabeth watched gratefully with curious fascination as the silky black rat hesitantly reached onto her plate, punctured the bread roll with its large incisors and dragged it onto the floor to begin its feast.

Elizabeth raised her shackled wrists and sighed, fiddling frustratedly with the cuffs in an effort to feel more comfortable. They were heavy, and the cold and rusting metal rubbed fiercely with her previously soft skin, now rough around the wrists with angry sores that bled. She groaned and rolled her eyes when she noticed a fresh, hot trickle of blood run down her arm and paint the lacy sleeve of her gown.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself, dropping her wrists into her lap.

The worst part was, she was a prisoner by her own means! A martyr to the cause, though she was starting to feel less like a martyr and more like a fool. Her clever tongue and a badly thought out escape plan had been the cause of all this nonsense.

Admittedly, she'd taken her husbands news about his imminent return to London – and her along with him – _very_ badly. After eight months, piracy in the Caribbean had been completely wiped out; the long trails of shackled prisoners taking feeble short steps to the gallows had waned into perhaps two or a three a month. And Tortuga? That promised island for pirates, the place Elizabeth constantly went within her dreams, now _only_ existed in her dreams. It had been attacked not long after the Brethren had scattered and was now a plantation island with its own governor. Any surviving pirates had gone into exile, now terrified of the seven seas and the power Lord Beckett held over them. The so-called Golden Age of Piracy was over, and British shipping and trade worldwide was safe once more.

The rewards for overseeing this 'great victory' – as his majesty, King George had called it – were generous. Lord Beckett was to continue his work for British trade and the EITC in London, working closely with the King and government in return for an income of £60 000 a year – an extremely handsome sum. George had been 'insistent' he take the position while those lower down the rank could continue a policy of 'maintenance' in the Caribbean; and had added more personally in his letter to 'remember to bring that lovely wife of yours, whom we are so anxious to meet.' Elizabeth knew deep down that rejecting the offer would have been intensely stupid, but she couldn't help but try and fight for her home.

She hated the thought of leaving the Caribbean; she'd grown so used to the climate and the thought of returning to the dark and miserable streets of London filled her with despair. She argued that she'd miss seeing the clear blue sea from her bedroom window with ships always on the horizon.

"…well, you'll just have to observe the muddy Thames from your window instead…" Lord Beckett had replied dryly.

She even attempted to sway his decision by claiming that the moment he left Port Royal, all the pirates would return and the Caribbean would fall to pieces. She gestured wildly that £60 000 a year wasn't a good enough offer to just pack up and leave for London. But he saw straight through her fluttering lashes and miserable pouts and would hear none of it. He would raise his eyes from the paperwork in front of him, smirk arrogantly and say,

"£60 000 a year Elizabeth, it's just good business..."

Elizabeth initially couldn't work out why the prospect of leaving Port Royal seemed so dreadful to her. She'd hated the place while growing up. She missed her friends, she hated the hot weather and found that there was never anything to do. London would have been an exciting prospect back then; the beautiful parks, a labyrinth of cobbled streets and alleyways to explore, bawdy taverns and coffee houses, colourful theatres and street performers, the royal court and thousands of shops. The only reason she tolerated it was because of Will's presence in her life, and her endless quest to make him fall in love with her. But now Will was dead, and leaving Port Royal meant her adventures were over for good. There was no chance of running away to join a crew of pirates, no chance of ever seeing Jack again… no, in London that life would be a distant memory. A previous lifetime. Elizabeth Swann would be lost, and she would be Lady Beckett forever.

And so, frantic in her fear of London – and everything that went with it – she began to plot a way to stay in Port Royal.

She hadn't realised how immediate, 'immediately' meant. Barely a few days after her husband had informed her of their return to London, preparations began. She had one week, one week to come up with something before she was dragged aboard the Endeavour the following Monday morning. At first, the short time frame panicked her – but when she bothered to stop and observe what was going on around her, she realised that time, nor did the creation of a sophisticated plot mattered. It was just too easy!

The week before setting sail, she noticed that she was completely invisible to everyone around her. They were far too busy to be concerned with her – and that included her husband. The house was a mess, its staff diligently moving from room to room – packing the entire library into crates, wrapping expensive bottles of port and brandy, covering silk furniture in white sheets, cleaning, carefully placing entire wardrobes into huge chests. It was difficult to move from room to room without clambering over towers of books and crates. Those who weren't spending time packing instead spent hours cleaning – polishing brass, washing sheets, burning paperwork that wasn't to be taken, but then wasn't to be left likely either. In between the staff were expected to try and keep the house running as normal, but it was a challenge, and therefore Elizabeth often found herself ignored. After all, they weren't frightened of crossing her, Lord Beckett on the other hand…

Elizabeth found her husband away for most of the week – in fact she barely saw him. He was held up from dawn to dusk at the EITC offices tying up loose ends and finalising his affairs – sorting through paperwork and packing up everything he intended to take with him. She would only see him for while at dinner, during which he took the time to read through his ledger, check over accounts and make a list of everything that needed to be done before setting sail. Barely a word was said, he was far too busy, and it would continue once his plate was empty when he would retire to his study to oversee the packing.

Therefore, if she were to suddenly decide to walk out of the front door, sneak out of the back door, or simply jump out of her window – would anyone notice?

Her preparation was very simple – she would wait for the opportune moment, a moment where she could simply disappear and be forgotten about until it was too late. This moment was volatile and could arise at any time, therefore she had to be ready for it. She didn't pack a bag or do anything that might attract attention to her plan – instead she took to wearing jewellery. It was all she would need. She stitched her diamonds into the seams of her stays, wore pearl necklaces and bracelets every day and knew that it would become an invaluable currency once she'd gotten away. She also wore her most expensive gowns in the hope that they too could be bartered.

The moment she'd been waiting for came late on Saturday evening. She'd spent the evening alone, sprawled across an easy chair in the library – her legs dangling over the arm while she lazily listened to the sounds of moving furniture upstairs. The chandelier above shuddered and tinkled with each vibration and she could hear muffled footsteps and voices. The noise had been going on for more than an hour. Elizabeth sighed loudly, threw the book into the crate beside her and sat up. A louder thud and crash.

"What on earth is going on up there?" she muttered to herself whilst glaring up at the ceiling.

Curious, she got up and left the library, wandering out into the corridor and eventually the hallway; where she stood at the foot of the staircase and peered up. She could hear people rushing around, and Lord Beckett's deep drawl commanding them about. Candlelight from his bedroom crept through the crack in the doorway and painted itself across the stairwell and onto the facing wall. Elizabeth quirked an eyebrow and regarded it carefully, watching shadows block the light every so often in between various pitches of clunks and crashes. He must have been having trouble packing his room, she thought to herself, and could only image the scene inside as she'd never been in there herself.

She gasped and turned when she heard the front door of the house swing open, and watched as two men shuffled into the hallway with an empty crate. They took no notice of her while she watched them from the foot of the stairs, struggling enough with the enormous crate as they passed her and slowly made their way upstairs. The light on the wall swelled as the bedroom doors opened for them.

"Another coffer milord…" one of the men said, his voice and the reply that followed stifled when the bedroom door clicked shut and the light against the wall disappeared.

Elizabeth bit her lip when she felt a soft breeze caress her from behind. She clenched her brow and turned around slowly. The men had left the front door wide open: an invitation to finally enact her plan.

Glancing one last time up the staircase she held her breath before grabbing her cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders in a swirl of black satin. She tied it round her neck, covered her hair with the hood, blew a sour kiss over her shoulder then quickly fled the house.

Perhaps it hadn't been her most intelligent of ideas; certainly in hindsight it seemed childish at best, rash, maybe even cowardly. She'd never been the sort of person to run away from a situation, whether it be an armada of EITC ships or a fight with her husband. It was almost a flaw in her character – always too stubborn to admit defeat. So she preferred to label her plan as a 'Vindicated Liberation.' No, she wasn't running away – simply 'guaranteeing her freedom.' Freedom that was to last only the best part of an hour.

The recent squalls had made the trail into town a muddy, clotted mess; and though for now the sky was clear, rainwater remained stagnant in scattered potholes and carriage tracks. Elizabeth clutched her petticoats and tried not to be bothered by it – it was only dirt after all, and she'd had her fair share of being coated in it – but she couldn't help but pout and grumble when her expensive satin slippers sunk into the mire as simply as a spoon into cream. She moved to the edge of the trail, where the mud was thin and dry and strode ahead as quickly as she could – following the embedded carriage tracks and hoof prints that led to the town, to the sea, and to freedom. But the further she got, the more she began to question herself.

Her escape had been easy – too easy – it was what came next that was the tricky part. Of course she hadn't stopped to think about that part. It was all well and good rushing for the town centre, but what should she do next? Where should she go? During the long preceding afternoons she'd thought long and hard about her escape – thought her plan through fully – but beyond the initial escape she'd made no further plans.

_I'll just have to find a way to get as far away from Port Royal as possible_, she thought to herself.

But how? It was easier said than done! She had the means and money to get away, but the problem was she was recognisable. Everyone knew her. Once Beckett knew she was missing, he'd report it and put a price on her recovery. She'd become hunted by anyone and everyone. And even if she did get away, joined a crew, bought passage to God knows where… how long before one of the Armada ships caught up with her and dragged her back?

By the time she found herself in the town square with mud caked to her stockings and hem, her determined pace had slowed to an aimless, demoralised trot. She felt ridiculous; like a child attempting to run away and felt conspicuous in the darkness. As she passed the two guards stationed on the corner of George Street she clutched her hood in an attempt to hide her face from them. But when she lowered her wide eyes to the muddy floor she saw the diamonds on her wrist sparkling in the corner of her eye, and the faultless sheen of her satin gown. She was a walking bank note – a target. Elizabeth quickened her pace when she was sure she heard them whispering behind her back – nudges, assumptions. She kept walking, glancing once or twice over her shoulder at them while her feet carried on. They took her round a sharp corner and into a group of drunks leaving the Hope and Anchor. The moment her eyes left the officers she stumbled and fell against them – engulfing herself within the stench of sweat, gin and dirt. Her elbow knocked one of their bottles, which danced, sloshed and split down her cloak. She gasped and shrieked, immediately attempting to pick herself up and swatting away their roaming hands.

"Alrigh' darling? No' righ' a fine mis-slike you being ou' alone a' so late an hour…" the bearded man slurred, his breath reeking of stale rum – his grubby hand reaching for her warm, flushed skin.

Terrified of being recognised, she shoved him hard then picked up her skirts and ran – her ruined shoes sounding on the cobbles and piercing through the gradually fading, and out of tune shanty that echoed from the Tavern. The officers would have heard her scream, they'd find the men and chase her, catch her then hand her over to her husband. Elizabeth ran faster down the street; her heart racing and aching with the weight of her imminent failure. But determined to the end, she ran until her feet throbbed. When the heel of one of her shoes became trapped in a cobble crack, she stumbled and left the shoe behind; frantically hopping on the bare foot and rummaging beneath her petticoats to remove the other – knowing she was faster without them. She threw it to the floor with a grunt, then ran down towards the beach and onto the wooden boards of the dock.

She could see the her horizon between the black cliffs, pierced by the shadows of ship masts bobbing on the evening tide. Her bare feet pounded on the boards as she dodged snoring sailors sleeping against crates, chased seagulls off the railings and tripped over discarded fishing nets – searching for her way out of Port Royal, a waiting ship, a dingy, anything. When she reached the end of the dock her hopes rose immediately when she saw a busy gang plank and waiting crates beside it. There was a large ship being loaded. Her mind ticked – perhaps it was sailing tonight? Aware it could be her only chance, she eagerly stepped forward and took the time to read the name of the ship that was sandwiched between the blazing lights of the cabin windows. The ship that might mean her freedom. Her stomach clenched and her jaw dropped as she read the letters.

_HMS Endeavour_

Her frenzied escape attempt had simply brought her closer to her fate – how painfully ironic. She pursed her lips and shook her head angrily as the stared at the ship.

"Tit." she snapped, closing her eyes, clenching her fists and stomping her bare foot.

She didn't have time to think or run quickly in the opposite direction – she felt her path blocked by a dark presence that had silently and subtly approached her; assassin's footsteps and muted breath. Elizabeth rolled her eyes when he finally spoke, recognising the rough voice immediately and feeling her stupid, pointless plan explode into a million pieces.

"Well, well…" he said, the rough tone of his voice grating in her ears, "…aren't we eager to set sail," he grinned.

Elizabeth shuddered and grimaced before she decided to turn around – _ugh_, how she hated her husband's parasite of a manservant. Swivelling slowly on her bare and now filthy toes, she lifted her chin, pursed her lips and painted a sardonic look on her face – her stubborn makeup, a look to mask her apparent failure. Resilient to the end, she took in Mercer through her dark eyelashes – looking him up and down; the black clothing, perpetually worn leather gloves, and his hard, weathered face with its irritating inability to crack a single smile. He cocked his head and tutted condescendingly at her,

"Oh I just came to peruse my prison for the next two months…" Elizabeth replied, vaguely waving her hand in the direction of the Endeavour.

"I see…and this little inspection required you to be dripping in diamonds did it, milady?" he replied cruelly.

"Don't you dare call me that," she snapped back, her voice lowered as she pointed a vicious finger at him.

"Lord Beckett demands it, _milady_," he said, repeating the title she hated beyond belief. Elizabeth pursed her lips and smirked,

"Ah yes," she slurred, "…where is my darling husband? I assume he knows my whereabouts since he sent his rat to seek me out."

His answer was silenced by the clattering sound of wooden wheels and hoof prints on cobbles, and Elizabeth craned her neck to look over Mercer's shoulder – rolling her eyes and sighing loudly when she saw the gilded carriage rattle to a halt beside the dock – an EITC insignia clearly visible on the door. _Well done_, she thought, mentally mocking herself as she watched the footman dressed in the EITC colours of blue and gold clamber down from the back of the carriage and ceremonially open the door. Elizabeth tensed, sucking on her lower lip as she wondered what sort of punishments her husband would inflict upon her for this little escapade. Nevertheless she attempted to look indifferent as he appeared on the dock dressed in black and gold, grinning discretely as he walked towards her – a guard either side. She lifted her chin, created a false dispassion in her brown eyes and pursed her lips tight with a look of mocking nonchalance.

"Milord," Mercer nodded, stepping aside.

"Mercer," Beckett replied before turning his arrogant gaze to his wife, "…and well, well – what do we have here?" he said wryly. "I did wonder when I'd find myself presented with some ill-conceived escape attempt."

"Found her wandering the docks sir," Mercer interrupted. "Note the diamonds milord..." Elizabeth scowled at him_, the ingratiating creep_!

"Yes, thank you Mercer," Beckett replied wearily, lifting a hand to silence his manservant.

He needant have pointed out the evidence of Elizabeth's failed escape attempt, he'd known long before she'd left the house. In fact he'd predicted it the moment he'd told her of his plan to return to England – those wide chocolate eyes: fearful, sad. His own eyes washed over her with sadistic sympathy as he approached her, glancing from the pearls and diamonds locked around her slender neck to the delicate satin camber of her expensive bodice. He'd found it curious how over the previous week Elizabeth's taste in household fashion had taken an clearly opulent turn. He'd always provided his wife with the most luxurious adornments; from gowns, to undergarments, to jewellery – but found her tastes were basic at best. She found the necklaces heavy, and found the bracelets only got in the way; she sweltered in the expensive silk gowns and found that the diamond chandelier earrings were simply uncomfortable. This sudden extravagant change was clearly noticeable to Lord Beckett.

"I assume your protest has something to do with our imminent departure," he commented dryly.

"You assume correctly," Elizabeth retorted, her voice slick with disdain.

"I see," he replied tepidly.

"I don't want to go to London," she interrupted, her voice clear – annunciating every word for added emphasis.

"Shocking," he replied mordantly, "…and a shame, as I was certain you'd enjoy the change of scenery."

"Enjoy!?" she scoffed, "_That_ is nothing but a floating prison," she snapped – pointing aggressively at the Endeavour, "…and I, its prisoner. I refuse to be an ornament in your parlour gathering dust – which is all I'll be if I go to London; continually caged in a fine house masquerading as a prison." She shouted, gesturing angrily. "I'd rather shackle myself to this dock thank you very much!"

"A prisoner?" Beckett replied, staring derisively at her – taking in her affluent appearance. "And what are those diamond bracelets I wonder, your shackles?"

"Yes…" she said sadly, clutching her neck with her left hand and caressing the pearl necklace that hung there, "…and these pearls? They might as well be a noose."

"And I thought I'd given you everything…" Lord Beckett said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

"Everything but my freedom."

"Freedom…" he scoffed under his breath – smirking. "My, but you are determined to play the martyr… Well, seeing as you're so intent on imagining yourself as a prisoner, then perhaps I'll just have to start treating you like one."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, both confused and alarmed at his final bitter statement – brimming with dark intent. She watched apprehensively as Beckett glanced pointedly at the guard to his left; he nodded delicately: a silent command. Previously idle, the guard flinched and immediately stepped forward – reaching for his belt and removing a pair of iron shackles which jangled as he moved. Elizabeth's eyes widened and her whole body tensed when she realised they were meant for her – but all too late when Mercer grabbed her arms firmly and held them forward for the shackles to be applied.

"Let go of me!" she squealed, fidgeting and twisting as the cool metal slipped over her hands and was locked firmly in place with a loud click.

Her husband remained silent, a lopsided grin playing on his lips as he watched the two guards hold his wife firmly under each arm and guide her away – whilst she kicked and screamed all sorts of obscenities.

"…should've done that months ago if you ask me, milord," Mercer said as they watched her disappear into the back of the carriage.

"I _didn't_ ask you," Beckett snapped, sending his manservant a vicious glare.

But that was Saturday evening, and now it was Monday morning which meant she'd spent two nights in the squalid cell contemplating her husbands intentions. On the surface they seemed entirely sadistic. He loved teasing her, and gained some bizarre enjoyment out of humiliating her and treating her as if she were some sort of masochist – Elizabeth knew that. But as the hours passed and she _still_ found herself sitting in the cell, she realised his motives were probably more strategic. Lock her up, let her pine away until Monday morning when he'd come fetch her, drag her aboard the Endeavour and then sail on to England. He'd let her cool off, let her spend some time pondering how ruthless her husband could be if provoked; but more importantly, another escape would be impossible.

When the midday sun shone brightly through her tiny cell window – shooting a hot beam onto the tiles by her feet – the cell door finally opened in a sequence of footsteps, rattling keys and clanking bolts. The rat feasting on her unwanted breakfast bolted for the crack in the wall just before Mrs. Sprogg waddled inside and made a clumsy curtsey.

"Someone to see you your ladyship…" she spluttered, curtseying once more before leaving the cell.

Elizabeth clambered to her feet, clutching the mossy walls and quickly attempting to brush her clothes down and make her hair presentable before – who she assumed would be Lord Beckett – stepped inside. She didn't want him to see the effects of two nights in prison on her. But she was disappointed when Mercer stepped into the cell and looked her up and down – his eyes almost soulless. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, she should have known he would never have come to fetch her himself.

"His Lordship requests yer pleasure milady…" Mercer said as he stepped towards her, kicking the half empty plate callously out of his path.

"Oh does he now?" Elizabeth replied mordantly.

"Come on," he replied, grabbing her firmly under the arm and shoving her out of the cell; her shackles sounding as they disappeared down the prison passageway.

They boarded a black EITC carriage waiting in the courtyard and sped down from the fort – high on the cliff-side – past the Governors house, through Port Royal and to the docks. Well aware she was being escorted to the ship that would take far from her home, Elizabeth spent the journey peering from the small carriage window – saying goodbye to her previous life.

At the dockside, they clambered out and wandered onto the gangways and boardwalks that sprawled and weaved around ships and boats – Mercer making sure he had a firm grasp on his prisoner at all times. Elizabeth clutched her dusty skirts and looked around – noticing the clear blue sky, the sailor friendly breeze that shuddered through rigging and against billowing ship sails. She heard seagulls floating on the breeze and the chatter and bustle of the busy dockside at midday – busier than usual as almost everyone must have known that Lord Beckett's time at Port Royal had come to an end. They stared at Elizabeth, whispered and nudged each other, they pointed at her shackles. She was glad when they finally ascended the gang plank onto the Endeavour – finally, fully loaded and ready to depart – and disappeared beneath the boards, down the corridor and through the teal coloured doors at the end with a guard standing either side. The charting room.

Elizabeth shoved herself free of Mercers grasp the moment the doors closed behind them, and lifted her shackled wrists to brush a stray hair from her eyes. She located her husband in the cluttered room, sitting at the desk on the right hand wall gently fingering the rim of his glass of brandy. He looked up from the extensive charts laid out in front of him, the moment the doors closed and gazed haughtily at her. Elizabeth stared back at him astringently, raising her chin and clenching her fists in the shackles.

"The uh, _prisoner_, as ordered milord," Mercer nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and throwing a small iron key across the room.

"Thank you Mercer," Beckett replied, catching the key and placing it in his pocket as he stood up and walked from behind his desk, "…order the crew – make ready to set sail," he said, stopping in front of Elizabeth.

"Milord," Mercer responded, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Once the doors clicked shut and Mercer's footsteps faded down the corridor, silence haunted the room. There was the occasional sound of ship floorboards creaking with the swell of the tide, the sound of seagulls outside and the faint sound of activity on the dockside. Lord Beckett regarded his wife, a lazy promenade from her tattered stockings up to the dirt caked to her skirts, the dried blood on her wrists, her tousled hair and ending finally with the furious glint in her eyes – she was on fire, her livid gaze could have melted his skin.

"You look an absolute fright," he said flatly – his voice cutting through the silent cabin.

A simple comment, yet plenty enough to turn his wife's kindling rage into an inferno. Elizabeth stepped forward and slapped him as hard as she could – the sound of her chains and the sharp crack echoing loudly through morbid the silence. He barely moved, accepting her anger with nothing more than closed eyes and a tightened jaw – but subtle anger raged in his frosty eyes when he opened them, and looked at her with an intimidating, acerbic fury.

"I have an overwhelming desire to wrap these chains around your neck…" she barked, gritting her teeth as she twisted the cold chains in her hands. "How dare you! You locked me in a disgusting prison cell like a convict, and left me to languish for two nights… two nights! Without anything to eat or drink..!"

"…I'm certain Mrs. Sprogg provided you with adequate prison portions…" he replied coldly – his voice raised, "...your choice to turn your nose up at them and go hungry is no fault of my own…"

"That food was barely fit for rats!" Elizabeth retorted. "It was filthy… cold… not to mention full of her hair…" Beckett smirked slightly,

"Ah…do I detect allusions of remorse?" he said softly, "…Could it be that you missed your 'fine house masquerading as a prison?'"

"Certainly not! I just…I…" Elizabeth scoffed, her stubborn gaze darting nervously around the room, "I…I was simply pointing out the um… the terrible state of your prison…"

Lord Beckett smirked and raised an eyebrow; her constant determination to defy him was amusing.

"It's not my problem anymore," he replied arrogantly, well aware that in a few weeks he'd be far from the Caribbean. Elizabeth sighed,

"Oh yes," replied, watching as Beckett turned his back to her and wandered across the room to look out of a window. "I meant what I said about London you know…I wont let you lock me away. And it doesn't matter whether I'm in an expensive house or… or whether you decide to throw me in Newgate for shits and giggles – I'll keep trying for my freedom."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he replied to the window before turning around to face her, "…because Elizabeth, until your little botched escape attempt I had no intention of keeping you _'caged'_ – as you so vividly keep putting it," he smiled.

"…excuse me?" she replied.

"It's a shame…" he continued whilst crossing the room, "I was certain you'd enjoy the freedom to explore… or perhaps visit those relatives you've once again forgotten about, who no doubt live in the surrounding counties."

Elizabeth's stomach clenched – her relatives! She'd completely forgotten about them! She hated to admit it, but suddenly, London seemed far more attractive to her. She couldn't help but be suspicious of what her husband said however, and narrowed her eyes as he stopped in front of her.

"And you'd allow that?" she asked cynically, "Allow me to just wander around London alone, to go see old friends and family…? And when I say 'alone' I mean _alone-alone_… no dark shadows following me around and peering over my shoulder," she added, pointing a finger at him.

"I assume you're talking about Mr. Mercer…" Beckett replied.

"Who else?" she scoffed.

"Well, I _was_ going to allow it... but, I've since changed my mind seeing as you're so devoted to playing my prisoner," he smirked.

"Oh for Gods sake," Elizabeth shouted desperately while clenching her dark eyebrows – if only she hadn't walked through that damned door! "I'm on the boat am I not? You've won! I'm coming to London – now please, for once, will you let me have my way?"

"I'm afraid my good nature is both rare and costly," he replied flatly.

Heavy eyelids, a stiff upper lip curled licentiously, the dark and hazardous glare; teasing and testing her. The signs of sinister and shameless allusions to come were unmistakeable. Elizabeth blinked and licked her lower lip nervously – feeling a tropical, oppressive flush sweep across her body, painting her cheeks scarlet and stinging the flesh across her breasts. She narrowed her eyes – smirking knowingly at her husband.

"Ah I see…" she whispered softly, cool breath on the heated air between them, "…and I suppose you'll want my negotiations so be conducted on my hands and knees, and my bargaining to involve begging and calling you 'master…'"

Lord Beckett exhaled a sharp, amused breath – almost laughter. _She does have a sinister opinion of me, doesn't she?_ He thought to himself, his arrogant gaze washing over her – taking in her dishevelled, be-shackled appearance almost victoriously. It burned through her dirty clothes, and imagined the warm naked flesh beneath. He saw the soft curve of her back and derriere as she crawled towards him, her spine prickling the pearly flesh as she moved. He delighted in the sound of the shackles as they dragged across the floor between her hands and shuddered at the vulnerable, submissive look in her eyes. He felt his blood blister – peppered desire flooding his veins.

"…actually," he whispered, his voice ragged, "I was imagining more of a probationary period once we reach London… but I'm not adverse to your proposed gratuitous _submission_."

_Gratuitous submission…_ The words swelled through her in a tight, hot shudder that throbbed and ached in her core – partly in anger and partly in riotous desire. His deep drawl spoke the words so clearly, so confidently – as if he knew he was able to get her on her back, ankles airborne with a single look – his eyes creating a dangerous visual confidence that guaranteed an agonizingly prolonged pleasure that would render her willing and wanton long into the afternoon. But arrogance could easily be mistaken for confidence – and that infuriated her.

Impulsively, she reached out – her sweaty, nail-bitten palm moving quickly to slap him. But this time, he saw it coming and snatched her wrist just below the shackles, his cold flesh clamping hard around her pulse. He used his sudden advantage to grab the other wrist just as tightly before backing her hard against the nearby wall – the knock created by the force of her body echoing in the silent room. She attempted to struggle out of his grasp – but his hands may as well have been a second pair of shackles. He'd trapped her against the wall with his body, crushing a light gasp from her lungs that drowned when he smothered her with an aggressive kiss.

A struggle; a syncopated, furious struggle that skipped between fast and chaotic kisses that slipped and stung between bites and sharp gasps – and slow, drugging kisses that languidly licked breathy moans from Elizabeth's swollen, parted lips. She very quickly felt limp and willing – her eyelids sleepy, her limbs heavy (of course that may have had something to do with the weight of the shackles…) She felt his hands move possessively from her wrists, up and behind her torso until one was raking through her hair and cradling her drowsy head, and the other fingered the bodice laces that stretched up her delicately arched back – tugging and ripping each loop and tie, hardly caring when he felt stitches tear and the expensive silk rip. Elizabeth felt the gown loosen notably across her breasts, meaning deeper breaths, deeper kisses – and a rising, aching, humidity that swelled at the juncture of her thighs.

Grasping her upper arms, Beckett pulled her roughly from the wall – her head lolling like a rag doll and as he forcefully guided her across the room to his desk; biting, licking and kissing the dewy place that was neither shoulder nor neck until the flesh glowed a dangerous shade of scarlet. He tore at the shoulders of her gown, ripping them downward until the clammy flesh of her collarbones and décolletage shone in the dull light. Soon she felt the hard mahogany of his desk through her petticoats and carefully perched herself on its edge – clutching the opening of his coat for support, finding it hard to navigate with her poor, bloody wrists seized together. He smirked predatorily at her as he buried his hands beneath the many skirts and slid them northwards along her thighs – seeking out the sultry cotton of her pantalettes and quickly wrenching them down and off. Cool air licked her and a knowing flush of blatant arousal ripped through every pore of her body. Brazen, she opened her legs wide, and was satisfied when he stepped in-between them and hoisted her skirts up and over her thighs – exposing the muddy and ripped silk stockings to their ties. She felt the metal of the shackles against her warm, naked thighs and gasped into his mouth – she'd almost forgotten they were there. But now the tarnished metal pierced her skin and made itself known – she laughed lightly – thrilled by the game that had surfaced from nowhere. She could be the high class harlot now disgraced and weathered in ripped silk, and favoured by her jailer. The diamonds stitched secretly into her bodice now raking the flesh across her ribs raw.

Pain, punishment, pleasure…

"Shall I remove these shackles?" he rasped against her lips as he wrapped her legs around his waist.

"No," Elizabeth grinned impishly in response, lifting them over his head and resting her hands on his shoulders. _Don't spoil it…_

"They're dead, sweetheart…" he whispered while reaching through the heat between them to fiddle with the waistband of his breeches.

"What…?" she frowned, hissing as he ran a precursory finger through the drenched curls of her sex before thrusting through them with an aggressive, desperate lunge. "Who?" Elizabeth breathed, against his lips – hesitantly lifting her confused gaze to meet his.

"The ones who left the cage open," he growled, "…and allowed my pet to escape…"

His words haunted her momentarily; ached and burned until she drowned into mindlessness – an onslaught of quick, assertive thrusts, hoarse moans, and blinding, pulsating implosions that crumbled from deep within. Her thighs went numb – locked wide for his aggressive rutting at their burning apex, she felt hot blood streak down her bare arms as the rusting shackles opened more wounds, and she groaned each time he bit down on her lower lip – her breath bursting in hot waves, her eyes clenched tightly shut.

…_death, shackles, guilt, prisoner, pain, murder, fuck, hurt me… hurt me…_ her mind begged over and over as her hands clenched the shoulder material of his coat. Chained to the cabinet; _hurt me…_ Bent over the desk; _hurt me…_ Sated and sleepy in his chair; _guilt, murder, death – unbearably slow death…_ Crawling on the floor, shackles dragging; _hurt me… hurt me…_ _punish me…_

Later, she sat sleepily in Lord Beckett's chair as he removed a tiny key from his coat pocket, gently unlocked the shackles from her wrists and placed them in his desk drawer. _Another time maybe - soon._

"Mercer was right…" he remarked with a soft curl in his lips as he poured a glass of brandy, "…I should have done this months ago…"

Elizabeth smiled and closed her eyes as she let her head fall over the back of the chair, relaxing as he took a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in brandy then soaked the dried blood on her naked wrists. She sighed, her head wonderfully empty as Port Royal slipped into the distance – forgotten, along with the two dead men who'd allowed her freedom for one single night.

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**More soon :)**


	10. Voyeurism

**Disclaimer: One day, none of this will be mine. I'm penniless, the mouse owns all, oh yes, and Coleridge.**

**Comments: Thanks so much to all who reviewed, glad you're enjoying these little ditties as much I'm enjoying writing them! SweetLittleNightmares – so glad I've swayed you to Beckabeth and made you happy. It is a really interesting relationship, and seriously loads of fun to write! Agent Sky Diamond thanks :) – and you're right, there really aren't enough Beckett fics out there – look forward to reading yours when you're done! Lock Little Devil – glad you liked the ending to IX… though I have a feeling I'll be dodging bricks with this one… Mrs.Depp – thanks! I do like keeping Beckett as IC as I can. But I don't think I give Elizabeth enough credit some times… she just doesn't get it does she? Beckett always wins :)**

**Moving on from 'Restraints' which conveniently set up for Beckabeth to be trapped on a boat for two months (rubs hands together gleefully), here's 'Voyeurism.' I've been horribly busy the last couple of months with portfolios and essays for my degree, so apologies if this update is a bit late – unintended, I promise! But at least for now, I'm free! So hopefully there'll be more frequent updates. Anyway! On with the Smutlet… Ooh. Actually, wait… one or two more disclaimers to mention. I'm not a sailing enthusiast, or a maritime mastermind so if I get a few boat bits wrong then, my bad. I have no idea how long it would take to sail from Port Royal to London in the eighteenth century, though lord knows I tried to find out. Apparently, it would take 40 days to sail from Liverpool to New York back then so… I'm going by that – hopefully I'm somewhere near right, 7 weeks? If you know, please, let me know! Also, officially… '_The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' _by Samuel Taylor Coleridge was written in 1798 – a little bit later than the period POTC is set – and although I usually like to be as true to dates as possible – being an anal history fiend (it drives everyone who knows me absolutely CRAZY…!)– well…meh… on this occasion I'm going to be naughty, and it was far too pretty and relevant-ish to leave out! Okay, I'll shut up now – enjoy!**

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**The Fortunate Mistress – Part X – Voyeurism**

It had been little over a month since the Endeavour had sailed from Port Royal. They'd long left behind the calm cerulean seas which lapped the islands of the Caribbean and Florida peninsula, and now waded into deeper, darker waters; the murky, grey surf of the Atlantic Ocean constantly crashing the hull. After staring longingly at the infinite blue horizon of ocean from the windows of the Governors house every day since her wedding, Elizabeth had decided she was excited at the prospect of returning to sea. Since escape from the ship was both impossible and outrageous, she found her husband's hold on her was a little more relaxed than usual. He allowed her free reign to explore the ship as much or as little as she wanted – providing she kept away from certain areas, of course. For example, she was told to stay well away from the lower decks; especially the Mess Deck, the section of the ship where the majority of the crew lived, ate and slept. The Orlop and Hold were completely off limits, and she was warned not to intrude on the Charting Room during the day – which she came to sardonically call 'The Throne Room.' Fully aware that at night his curious wife may choose to go wandering where she shouldn't have, Lord Beckett ensured Elizabeth's main cabin door was always locked every evening.

Though not as free and free reign could have been, Elizabeth didn't really mind keeping to the rules. Despite her experience in being trapped on a ship and surrounded by men – she had no intention of wandering below the water line. The Mess Deck, true to its name, could get _very_ messy – especially an hour after the crew were given their first issue of alcohol. And though it felt like being in prison again, she wasn't adverse to her door being locked at night. To her it wasn't so much a case of being locked in, but locking others out. She was happy enough to stroll along the Quarter Deck and Forecastle to the bow of the ship – and always leaned far over the rails to watch where the ship ripped through the water and parted the foamy waves. When she felt the breeze and sea salt on her cheeks and could see only miles and miles of ocean all around, she enjoyed the sensation of feeling very small in a very big world.

"…_that's what a ship is, what the Black Pearl really is, is freedom…"_

Yes. The sensation _was_ hungrily close to freedom, as if she were on another adventure, on a ship that could take her anywhere in the world, or even out of it. But all she need do was look above her head at the billowing, black EITC flag, and down again at the expensive wedding ring on her finger to realise that she was a far cry from Elizabeth Swann, King of the Brethren Court. She missed that girl, where had she gone? In memory, she liked to watch the crew; gazing mournfully at the Idlers when they rolled up their trousers, scrubbed the deck with sand and holystones and washed the masts with vinegar. Standing and watching them brought her close to being her old self, and it felt wrong almost, not to be standing by the helm yelling commands, a cutlass and pistol at her hip. Despite the memories being on board had brought back – it was nice to have them, and be somewhere where she felt close to them. But it didn't take very long for the novelty to fade.

The further the Endeavour sailed from the American coast, the harsher the weather became. High winds and monstrous breakers, rocked the ship and licked the deck, and heavy rain beat the sails. Soon it was far too dangerous to take walks out on the deck and Elizabeth had to make do with seeing the sea from her cabin window instead. Not that she minded, she was bored with it anyway, and felt lonely every time she searched for land or for another ship on the horizon. But there was nothing. The occasional tea clipper passed and satisfied her momentarily, but then there'd be blank ocean for days. She stopped observing the crew, becoming irritated by the sounds and smells that drifted up from the lower decks. Instead she was confined to her cabin, with nothing to do but count the days till they reached London, continually fantasising about the prospect of pirate ship sneaking up on them, storming the Endeavour and rescuing her away. But that's all it was, a fantasy – Elizabeth knew better than to pin all her hopes on that.

The terrible weather forced the crew to be constantly on edge, awaiting a call for "…all hands on deck!" or "…bracing positions!" Sails constantly needed trimming, ropes were frequently becoming snagged and all able hands were needed to bring the ship safely through each storm, and that included Lord Beckett, whom Elizabeth barely saw, despite their close proximity. Through the thin wall of her cabin she heard him barking orders and issuing punishments in the Charting Room. She'd assumed she'd receive far more attention from him on such a long sea journey – but when she found she'd assumed wrong, she was surprised at how lonely she became. With no chamber maid for company and conversation – seeing as her husband insisted on hiring new staff for the new house when they reached London – Elizabeth had nothing to do but spend the long days sleeping, reading, eating, listening through walls, looking through windows, thinking and day dreaming. She felt bone-idle, bored and useless.

Sprawled across her bed with a discarded book lying half open across her chest, Elizabeth watched the glowing lantern above her swinging back and forth with the swell of the ship. For three hours since the ship cook had brought her an unappetizing dinner of salted beef, a questionable mush of dried vegetables and a glass of wine, Elizabeth had been static – plodding unenthusiastically through a particularly dull novel until it was time to dim the lanterns and sleep. Sleep was a relief – it was only way of making the days pass quicker. But then days spent doing nothing meant that she was hardly ever tired. Frustrated and unable to drift off, she'd given up on the book and dropped it onto her chest with a loud sigh. Instead she pursed her lips and watched the lantern with a strange and weary fascination – following its dance with her eyes, and noticing how the flame of the candle flickered and lengthened as the lantern moved. Perhaps it would tire her out? Maybe her eyes would start to feel heavy, and before she knew it, she'd be waking up tomorrow – another day closer to London.

"Day after day, day after day we stuck nor breath nor motion, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean…" she whispered to herself, timing the words with the rhythm of the lantern. "Something, something, something… blah, blah, blah… bored, bored, bored."

She groaned and rubbed her eyes when she realised she was still wide awake. _Why are we not there yet!?_ she asked herself. _I'm actually starting to go mad with boredom! _she decided. Sighing loudly, Elizabeth turned her head on her pillow and gazed about her cabin. Officially it was one of the three rooms that made up the Captains Quarters. Hers was supposed to be the dining room, the room next door was Charting Room or the 'Day Room,' and the room beyond that was Lord Beckett's private cabin, the Captain's bedroom. Elizabeth had decided early on that he obviously didn't want her to get in the way, or be constantly under his toes and therefore decided to tuck her away – allow her to her own devices during the day, and then lock her away at night. In preparation for the voyage, he'd had the dining room completely refurbished – deciding there was no reason why he couldn't take dinner in his bedroom instead. The large dining table for six was broken apart and placed in the hold, along with its matching chairs and silver service. A large mahogany bed with soft white sheets had been brought in and placed beneath the cabin windows. A small wash stand and dresser were placed against the left side of the room, and a selection of chests and caskets of Elizabeth's belongings lined the wall beside the door that led into the Charting Room. On a small table in the centre of the cabin, Elizabeth's dinner sat; half eaten, the glaze on the beef joint gleaming and candlelight reflected from the empty wine glass. She winced and turned back to the swinging lantern. Though the room was undoubtedly cosy, she'd begun to hate it.

"Ugh! I can't stand this anymore!" she snapped, grabbing the book from her chest and throwing the bed sheets from her body.

She strode across the cabin – her bare feet sounding on the floorboards, and threw the book into one of the open caskets with a loud thump. The page split and crinkled in agony. Reading was getting her nowhere – of course out of the many caskets full of books that could have been brought to her cabin, Lord Beckett had strategically chosen the most dull. History books, geography books, books about science, books about math, the bible! Elizabeth despaired! What about her favourite novels? The adventure ones she could have read over and over again? Better still where was Pamela? Shamela? Fanny Hill and the Fortunate Mistress? Now those were the sort of books to keep her occupied, and though Beckett had finally allowed her to read them again – Elizabeth grimaced when she remembered what she'd put herself through to get them back – they were obviously locked away in the hold, kept away from idle, fidgety, female fingers with a mind to distract the crew. Elizabeth stopped to smirk at the thought and delicately bit her lip.

She sauntered to the full length mirror beside her dresser and caught her reflection – smiling at the woman who stared back her. She flirted with her, teasing the wavy blonde hair cascading across her shoulders – flashing her dark eyes across the warm flesh and slight curves peering through her wafer thin cotton shift. She pouted and laughed, enjoying the pink flush her cheeks had caught from the wine she'd drunk earlier. She suddenly felt attractive, warm, and desperately wanted to share herself with someone. But who? Perhaps her solitude was the perfect opportunity to spend some time with herself, and if she was without her favourite 'reference' books then maybe she'd just have to rely on her imagination instead. And it was the perfect cure for insomnia. But first, a drink perhaps – a nightcap to unwind and help her on her way.

"Drink… hmm water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink…" she tutted, picking up the empty wine glass, tipping it and watching a final ruby droplet rush to the rim.

With no drinks cabinet in her own cabin and a locked door, where could she get one? But it wasn't the only door in her cabin, and Elizabeth knew for a fact the other one was always left unlocked. The side door in her cabin led to the Charting Room and was kept open purely for her husband's intentions, who's cabin lay on the other side of the Charting Room through another side door. Elizabeth knew for a fact that her husband had a nice supply of brandy in a small cabinet near his desk next door and knowing that so late in the evening he would have retired to his bedroom to finalise the evening's orders, Elizabeth quickly put on her peppermint coloured dressing gown and opened the door to the Charting Room.

The door never opened all the way. It was almost fully blocked by her husband's portrait which he no doubt aimed to hang somewhere important in the new house when they reached London. Elizabeth squeezed through the small gap, finding that when she let go of the door it closed itself with the weight of the portrait. She stepped back and looked at it for a moment – raising a derisive eyebrow and smirking at the artist's shamelessly exalted portrayal of her husband.

The Charting Room was dark and silent, the lanterns dimmed a long while ago. In the corner of the room a large and ornate grandfather clock was close to striking midnight, and the tabletop map with its model ships – a miniature fleet complete with a miniature Beckett – were cast into darkness by her shadow. She approached them and carefully picked up her tiny husband between her thumb and index finger – smiling at his hand painted face and imagining the model was real. Imagining for once that _she_ was giant with all the power. For a moment she contemplated taking it back to her cabin and holding it above a naked flame, watching him slowly melt and burn between her fingertips. She exhaled an amused breath at the thought, but instead put him back on the table. Placing him on the tiny sketch of Great Britain, right at the head of his tiny fleet.

In the rosewood cabinet to the left of his desk, Beckett kept a small hoard of alcohol for use during the day. Sitting on top, on a silver tray were a collection of glasses – two brandy glasses, two wine glasses, four small sherry glasses and a crystal port decanter. Elizabeth carefully took one of the brandy glasses – mentally telling herself to remember to bring it back – and crouched clumsily to open the door. She reached in and prudently moved around the various bottles – making sure the glassware didn't clink or sound out in the quiet room. Brandy was Lord Beckett's preferred drink and Elizabeth wasn't surprised that the bottle was half empty when she found it. But when she checked the lower shelf of the cabinet, she found an unopened bottle waiting for her. She'd take the whole thing, _let him find out_, she thought mischievously to herself.

As she closed the cabinet and stood up, clutching the brandy glass and bottle to her chest – she heard a door shut and could suddenly hear voices coming from next door. Curious, she crept towards the double doors that led from the right of the Charting Room and into her husbands bedroom. She crossed the trail of candlelight that seeped from the gap, the light washing her face as she peered into the room.

She quickly located Lord Beckett sitting at a small dining table – similar to the one in her own cabin – sipping tea from one hand and glancing at a collection of parchments in the other. He'd removed his coat and placed it over the back of the chair, and sat comfortably without it in his waistcoat and shirt. She watched him as he lowered the china cup from his lips and placed it back onto its saucer with a light chink, finding that the simple action dripped with his arrogant personality. He then lowered the papers too, picking up a quill and scribbling on each – signatures perhaps – in between glancing back and forth to speak to the person standing beside him. When Elizabeth adjusted her gaze she could see the other two men clearer; Lieutenant Groves was one of them, standing by the main door that led from the bedroom to the Upper Gun Deck, and of course who else could the other man have been but Mercer? Elizabeth frowned and rolled her eyes, _who else?_

"I trust everything is in order below deck?" Beckett asked, dropping the quill and sitting back in his chair.

"Nothing unusual, sir." Mercer replied, "All lanterns are out…not a peep out of most of the men, but two were found drunk on the Mess."

"Take them to the brig," Beckett drawled, taking another sip of his tea.

"Already done, milord."

"Good," he continued, "…and, let them have a taste of the nine tails tomorrow..."

"Milord." Mercer nodded, smirking.

"…meow," Beckett replied dryly – his expression sober.

Elizabeth grimaced when she saw Mercer's face lighten substantially. The nine tails, or the cat o' nine tails was terrifying. The small whip, with nine 'tails' knotted at each end was the darker alternative to a traditional flogging. She'd seen it used once before and found the satisfaction in Mercer's eyes when he watched hot blood weep from his victim's lacerated back both terrifying and gruesome. She'd stood silently beside her husband, flinching and frowning deeper at each crack of the whip, and when she couldn't bear it anymore had clenched her eyes tightly shut.

"Open your eyes," Beckett had whispered, reaching for her closed fist, blood draining from her knuckles.

"Fuck you," Elizabeth had whispered harshly, sneering at his cold face before she slapped away his hand and stormed back to her cabin.

Her disapproval was interrupted however, when the grandfather clock behind her struck midnight – its melodic chimes startling her momentarily. The sound was clearly heard in the other room, as Beckett suddenly glanced behind to the clock above his bed.

"And my wife, Mr. Mercer?" he asked, an eyebrow quirked.

Mercer threw a small set of brass keys to Beckett, who caught them and examined them in the palm of his hand. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

"_Confined_, sir." Mercer replied with a slight smirk.

"Good." Beckett smiled darkly. "Asleep?"

"Probably."

"A simple question Mercer which desires a simple answer. Is she asleep, yes or no?" he replied derisively.

"Well I didn't go in milord," Mercer replied, his smile gone, "But all was silent inside when I locked both her door and the main Charting Room door, sir."

"Very well. What's the current condition, lieutenant?" Beckett asked, finishing the last of his tea and glancing sideways at Groves, who replied with a sharp nod.

"Sailing plain, my lord."

"Good. In that case, signal for Middle Watch to commence," Beckett flatly, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose – it was late and he was clearly tired.

"Yes sir… ah, anything else?" Groves asked lightly.

"No, that'll be all…" Beckett replied, "…Out, both of you," he added, flicking his hand at them as he continued to massage his forehead with the other.

Elizabeth found the small gesture comforting. She often thought of her husband as some sort of dangerous clockwork toy that just kept going, and going, and going. Lord Beckett didn't get ill, or tired – did he? She continued to watch as both Mercer and Groves bowed, then quickly left the room – leaving him alone – or so he thought. Elizabeth knew she should have retreated herself – but instead, an overwhelming curiosity kept her glued to the crack in the door. It wasn't often she got to observe her arrogant husband on his own. What was he like when no one else was around? What did he do? She wondered if perhaps there was a side to him she may have missed – and therefore simply couldn't tear herself away from the secret voyeur.

She held her breath and pressed her face against the door, watching closely as her husband made his way from the small dining table to the main door – dragging the bolt across with a screech and a light click. He then wandered to a small cabinet beside the large and opulently dressed bed, where he removed a brandy glass, and a half drunk decanter to accompany it. The porcelain tea service was pushed to the side, the crystal lid of the decanter removed and a generous amount of amber liquid sloshed into the glass – a sinuous solution that glowed when candlelight shone through it. Elizabeth swallowed, mentally tasting the brandy on her dry tongue as she watched her husband cup the glass in his palm, swirl it, then take a small sip. She stared when he dragged his lips from the glass – glistening – and she held her breath when he neatly licked his lower lip.

When he placed the glass back on the table, the thud made her blink, and she continued to observe him as he began to remove his waistcoat – teasing each button carefully through the crimson patterned satin, each button hole trimmed in gold braid. He took the time to shake out any creases, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes when he folded the waistcoat twice and crossed the room to place it neatly over a hand painted screen. Free and loose, he made his way back to the table and seemed very happy to sit down – falling into the chair and relaxing against the back instantly. But after a quiet moment of just staring at the glass of brandy in front of him, it seemed he still wasn't comfortable enough and suddenly both sat forward and bent down to remove his black lacquered boots. Each came off easily with a tug, and he followed them with his socks balled and placed in the leg of each boot. She watched, fascinated, when he sat back in his chair and undid the jabot neatly tied around his neck roughly with one hand and threw it carelessly onto the table in front of him, following it far more carefully with his powdered wig.

The unnerving transformation was one Elizabeth couldn't say she'd really noticed. Usually, she stubbornly turned away when he crept into her bedroom and removed his clothes, she felt virginal every time – never knowing what to expect from him. When she felt frightened, and vulnerable, she turned away; and like a child, thought that if she couldn't see him, he couldn't hurt her. But now, when she took the time to observe him – platonically, when he didn't know she was there – she was pleasantly surprised.

He was normal. When he was stripped of his wig and fine clothes, and raked his fingers through his cropped brown hair and sipped brandy – Lord Beckett was just like any other man. Elizabeth smiled when he stretched his legs under the table and crossed his bare feet, and when he rolled the ruffled sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. She found it far too easy to forget who he really was, and had to stifle a giggle when he lifted a teaspoon from the tea service and used it to regard the reflection of the stubble on his chin. She was almost surprised to find him human.

But his expressions were all the same; his eyes still cold, still vacantly aggressive – and soon her smile faded when he placed the teaspoon carefully, precisely, _neurotically_ onto the tea tray, and arrogantly downed the remainder of his drink.

Elizabeth was about to leave – still clutching her own glass and full bottle of brandy precariously in her hands – when she heard his chair squeak across the floorboards. She quickly resumed her position and stared as he stood and circled the table, stretching his arms behind his head and grasping the linen of his shirt. She followed the hem of his shirt as it trailed up his spine, uncovering his naked back in one swift sweep. Elizabeth could barely blink, her eyes locked on the sudden bare flesh glowing in the candlelight, emanating testosterone from each pore. She had a particular weak spot for the male back, and Lord Beckett's was no different. There was just something unintentionally sexual about them. The shape perhaps, the vast stretch of bare flesh – the way the spine created a smooth crease from the shoulders and nape right down the middle. She watched as he pulled the shirt over his head and began to ball it, his wide shoulder blades clenching and moving as he did so – the contours of muscle tissue becoming visible with each movement, right down his shoulders and arms. Suddenly aware her mouth was open, Elizabeth licked her dry lips and suckled on the lower one as her vision trailed addictively over his bare skin.

Perhaps it something about the power the flesh there could yield? Whether during a swordfight or during sex. She contemplated how she enjoyed running her hands down his back when he lay on top of her, grinding zealously – those final, quick, assertive thrusts before he groaned and collapsed momentarily on her breasts, then rolled away. She liked to bury her nails in those shoulder blades – liked to squeeze the flesh there before she came.

Elizabeth blinked firmly, unlocking her eyes from both him and images in her mind. She watched as he crossed the room and placed the shirt over the dressing screen before turning and walking back – unknowingly displaying his naked torso to the woman behind the door who bit her lip to quell the smirk slowly spreading across her swollen lips. As he walked back towards the table, she allowed her languid eyes to run over his torso – visually touching every pore from his collar, across his chest, the subtle hint of hair creeping from his arm pits and then down to his tapered hips and navel. She watched as he yawned and stretched, her lower lip dropping again and releasing a deep breath she felt she'd held for minutes on end. She wanted to touch, wanted to kick the door down and envelope herself in warm flesh, run her hands… everywhere – but she wasn't sure what her husband would do if he found out she'd been watching him. She felt unbearable longing twist her abdomen, and suddenly felt humid in her dressing gown – her cheeks flushed violently.

When his hands dropped and began to unlace his breeches, Elizabeth felt her whole face turn bright red. A part of her didn't want to look, and knew she should run straight back to her cabin – but the other, and far bigger part wanted to stay.

"…oh my…help," she whispered to herself as she anxiously watched his fingers innocently untie and unlace – completely unaware he had a mischievous onlooker.

When the ship suddenly lurched and creaked, she was completely incapable of holding herself up and clattered ungracefully into the table beside her – the brandy glass she'd been holding falling and smashing dramatically onto the floor.

"Shit!" she gasped, standing up and staring horrified at the mess of expensive crystal on the floor.

Elizabeth glanced back and forth from the smashed brandy glass to the door. Her choice was simple, rather than stay and be found out – she quickly tiptoed over the broken glass and ran back to her cabin, closing the door behind her as quickly as possible to prevent detection. She hurled her dressing gown onto a chair and dived into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck.

Elsewhere, Lord Beckett narrowed his eyes and slowly walked to his bedroom door – raising his eyebrow when he found the Charting Room empty. He looked down and saw broken glass on the floor and noticed a faint pool of light spilling from the cracks in the Dining Room door.

"Not asleep." he murmured, his lips quirked darkly.

* * *

**Yes, I know...not much banter in this one I know, not my best by far, but the next one will be steamier... I promise ;) Stay tuned for 'Alone' - or not so alone... More soon...**


	11. Alone

**Obligatory Disclaimer -** I own not a penny to my name - so don't sue.

**Comments-** Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and patiently waited for this chapter. It's been a long hiatus, but I'm back now - free from the shackles of education and have some time to crack on with these. Not much else to add really except that this one's a continuation of the last chapter 'Voyeurism' and that it's a bit of a long one to make up for my absence. Also, "An Essay on the Art of Ingeniously Tormenting" is completely real - published in 1753 by Jane Collier with... _fome general instructions for plaguing your aquaintences..._ I want to read it, it sounds awesome. Enjoy ;)

**WARNINGS -** Masturbation, bondage, violence - it's all here. Why else would this be rated 'M?' You have been warned. If Beckabeth isn't your cup of tea, best give this a miss.

* * *

**The Fortunate Mistress - Part XI - 'Alone'**

She closed the door with her back, slouching against it and clutching the bottle of port against her breasts. Her heart hammered beneath it, whilst her ears rang with the sound of crystal shattering over and over again on a wooden floor.

"Fuck," she hissed, covering her face with her hand – her forehead was hot and sticky. _Did he hear it? Did he hear me? Oh God, what was I thinking?_ she thought to herself desperately.

This was one of those occasions where she wished that her door had a lock on it. She could have simply turned a key or flicked a bolt and she wouldn't have had to panic. But unfortunately her husband had confiscated the only key and with it demanded that the remain unlocked at all times, therefore she certainly had good reason to panic. She recoiled from the door and hid the bottle of brandy underneath her bed – suddenly, she wasn't feeling that thirsty anymore. She struggled out of her dressing gown and hurled it over the back of a chair, before leaping into bed, spitting out the flame inside the hanging lantern above, then pulling the covers up around her neck.

The lantern above her head swung back and forth in the darkness, grey smoke curling and kissing the wooden beams. Her heartbeat continued to hammer noisily. She held her breath and waited, carefully listening for the sound of a door being shoved open, or angry, stomping footsteps in the Charting Room next door – but she heard nothing, only the sound of the ship creaking from side to side and the waves roaring and crashing against the hull.

She frowned and turned her head to look at the door. It glared back at her – untouched – the brass handles glinting between the shadows that moved with the swell of the ship. Her heart stumbled to a slower pace, and she finally released her held breath into the silent room.

_He didn't hear… He isn't coming…_

Strangely though, she wasn't relieved by the clear silence – she was bemused instead. _How could he possibly not have heard the sound of the glass smashing right outside his cabin door?_ That was her immediate question. _How?_ Elizabeth scoffed when she recalled what had happened. The ship had lurched violently to the side, she'd lost her balance and clattered spectacularly into a side table – knocking over a silver tray and dropping the crystal brandy glass on the floor. The crash–smash sound couldn't have been any louder, so why hadn't he heard it?

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead. Unless he _had_ heard it but hadn't questioned it. Something could have easily and innocently fallen off a ledge, couldn't it? Her thoughts were silent for a moment – the clock in the corner of the room ticked loudly, and sudden footsteps passing over the deck above made her flinch and glare at the wooden ceiling. She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue. No, the sound had been too loud, he _must_ have heard. But then even if he'd wanted to find out what the noise was, she supposed he couldn't have anyway – he'd been half way through removing his breeches the moment the glass slipped from her fingers. She rolled onto her side and sucked on her lower lip, staring across the pitch black cabin – the darkness proving the perfect canvas for equally dark thoughts to flourish upon.

She saw him again. All brown curls and bare flesh through the crack in the door – his powdered wig and lacquered boots discarded on the table and on the floor. Shadows from fluttering candlelight carved his back – cutting soft silhouettes across his shoulder blades when they tightened, and painting a long smudge along the spine when his torso twisted. She always traced her fingers along that hollow – thumbing vertebrae and flexing flesh – smearing the tips of her fingers with his scent when he moved on top of her. He'd let her touch for a while, but then he'd seize her wrists with a snap and force them into the pillow, glaring at her frankly with a look that said, 'Stop that, it's annoying.'

Her cheek burned into the cool pillow. In her mind, the ship never threw her onto the cabinet, and the glass didn't smash on the floor – in her mind she leant her warm cheek against the painted doorframe and continued to watch him, long after the breeches had fallen around his ankles. She'd hold her breath and watch him fold and place them neatly over the screen. Then – wearing only his wedding and signet rings – he'd pick up his glass of brandy, cradled it in his palm and take a deep swig. She'd feel his flesh beneath her fingertips and taste the brandy on his lips.

Elizabeth grunted as she kicked the bed sheets from her body and rolled onto her back. It had been such an impulsive thing to run away and hide after the glass had smashed. She didn't regret it really, only wondered.

What if he _had_ caught her? What if she'd been unable to move, or if the door had suddenly opened? What might he have said, what would he have done?

Elizabeth smirked…

* * *

Her stomach knotted when the glass slipped from her hand and floated to the floor. She tried to reach out and grab it, but she was too slow – it cracked and smashed just in front of her toes, little pieces sparkling as they skidded across the floorboards in all directions, catching the candlelight that crept from beneath the cabin door. Elizabeth glared in horror at the mess in front of her as she grasped the edge of the cabinet tightly.

"Shit!" she gasped, her nails digging into the mahogany finish.

She was curling her toes away from the sharp pieces of crystal when the door beside her was suddenly pulled open – the light from inside the cabin illuminating her. She blinked and turned her head slowly, her lips pursed into an aghast 'oh' shape. He stood in the doorway, still holding the door – wearing only his breeches and the most exasperated look she'd ever seen. His tepid eyes sunk to the mess on the floor, travelled up to the bottle of brandy she was still clutching, and then slowly returned to her wide eyes. He exhaled angrily through his nose.

"Uh… I was just… and then, um…" Elizabeth stuttered, gesturing in all directions. She attempted to avoid his gaze, but when her eyes wandered across his half naked frame instead, she shut them and shook her head. "The ship… it um, it moved."

He didn't reply – instead, he punched the door so it swung open fully, then stepped aside and leant against the doorframe – arms folded across his bare torso. He glowered at her impatiently, silently calling her inside.

The action made her stomach clench, and the anger brewing in his eyes sent a shudder down her spine – an icy raindrop rushing from nape to coccyx. Elizabeth snapped her mouth shut then obediently slipped down from the cabinet, tucking a messy strand of hair behind her ear as she negotiated her way on tip toes across the crystal covered floor. She took the opportunity to direct her eyes to where she was putting her feet instead of looking at him – but nevertheless, she still felt his gaze burning straight through her.

She grabbed the doorframe for support when she stumbled and stepped into the doorway alongside him.

He stopped her. She looked up. His eyes were violent – firm.

"Ah, ah… I think I'll take that if you don't mind, sweet," he drawled, gesturing to the bottle of brandy she was clutching. "We don't want to suffer any more accidents, now do we?" he added haughtily in a whisper.

She shoved the bottle at him, twisting her pink lips into a scowl and whipping her dressing gown shut when she stormed past. His gaze followed her, pursuing her as she strolled alongside the small dining table and brushed her fingers along the varnished edge. When she picked up the hem of her dressing gown and stepped over his boots to fiddle with a stained teaspoon on the discarded tea service tray and stroke the black satin ribbon of his wig, his eyes were drawn instantly to her pretty feet and ankles. He smirked. He liked to throw those ankles over his shoulders or feel them lock around his back.

When she turned her back to him and wandered over to the bookshelf beside his bed, Beckett closed the cabin door and locked it with a little brass key. He then crossed the room and placed the brandy bottle on the cluttered dining table with a clunk.

"That crystal snifter was part of an expensive set," he said, his voice smooth and without anger – as if it had been strained of it, flowing like wine from its bitter pulp.

"It was an accident, and you can certainly afford to replace it," Elizabeth replied dismissively with a yawn.

She was making her way along his bookshelf and reading the spines now. Shaking her head as she scanned the immaculately kept collection. _The Prince, Britannia: a Historie, The Art of Oriental Torture, Political Discourses, An Essay on the Art of Ingeniously Tormenting, The Destruction of Troy, The History of England under the house of Tudor…_ They were all so typically him. She held back a smile.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I was thirsty, I wanted a drink… and because my cabin is _insufficiently supplied_, I had to rifle through yours instead, is that alright?" she admitted irritably, turning to face him.

"I heard your feet on the floorboards out there ten minutes ago, Elizabeth," he replied dryly – scooping up his brandy glass and taking a deep swig from it. "It shouldn't take any longer than three to pour a glass and leave."

His eyes held her – silent amusement and an invisible smirk.

Her heart leapt into her throat and she paused beside his substantial bed. It was built into an alcove with two floor to ceiling carved mahogany posts on each protruding corner. He knew she'd been watching him. Her cheeks burned. She buried her eyes in the burgundy coverlet sprawling the bed.

Denial was too easy. "I don't know what you mean," she shrugged, fingering the elaborate carving on the bedpost – curling waves, long legs, flowing hair and breasts – Venus rising from the sea. The sea, she was fed up of the sea. Her hand faltered.

But then denial was too easily sensed by him. "Yes you do, and I suggest – for your own sake – that you cease the false naivety immediately or this conversation is going to be far more uncomfortable for you than it need be," he said whilst silently untying the black ribbon from his wig and slipping it into the pocket of his breeches. "It makes little difference to me of course, you know how I enjoy watching you writhe."

Elizabeth continued to stare angrily at the flawless silk stitching in the coverlet. _Writhe_. Yes, she had a funny feeling she going to be writhing around on top of that coverlet in the not so distant future. Her abdomen throbbed warmly with approval – her breath caught at the back of her throat. She struggled to compose herself, then turned around.

He stood statuesquely still – waiting patiently for her to speak.

"Must we do this?" she complained irritably, shaking her head and throwing her arms to her sides.

"Yes," Beckett replied impassively, approaching her with his arrogant, leisurely swagger.

His predatorial approach threw her. "I was bored," she admitted with a groan. "I came to get a drink and then, I saw the light coming from your cabin and, well…I didn't mean to spy... "

He stopped in front of her, staring rapaciously – mussed hair and bare flesh, golden in the candlelight. Elizabeth turned her head and pretended to look out of the blackened window. The sight of him maddened her.

"I see," he repeated. "You were curious…"

"Yes, I was curious…" she snapped back derisively – but then once she realised what she was admitting to she took it back. "No, not curious! I've seen it all anyw… I just wanted to… I needed to… Oh, bollocks."

She gave up and clenched her fists in frustration, her nails biting into her palms. When she noticed the amused look in his eyes she blushed harder. She hesitated before she tried to explain herself, sucking nervously on her lower lip.

"Look, you explain to me how I'm supposed to occupy my time," she growled. "I'm not allowed to go for a walk on the quarter deck because the weather's constantly rough, and then I'm not allowed go for a wander below deck because of my 'safety.' _My_ safety – honestly – if anything happened to me down on the Mess I can honestly say I'd be happy for the diversion…" she barked sarcastically.

"Duly noted," Beckett replied wearily.

"…I have no one to keep me company, nothing to read…"

"Actually, there are plenty of books in your cabin," he interrupted, his eyes trailing lazily across the neckline of the shift peering from beneath her dressing gown

"The bible?" Elizabeth grit her teeth.

"I thought you should read something educational for a change," he replied dryly.

"The books I read _are_ educational," she retorted. "Just… more, applied…" she added with a blush and an awkward clench of her brow.

"_Applied_…Ah yes…" Beckett said with a slight lopsided grin Elizabeth wouldn't even notice whilst she was busy shouting at him.

He did tend to agree with her, her favourite books did have their merits. They were just as instructive as they were entertaining, and that's precisely why he'd returned them to her – not without some fun at her expense first, however.

"…the food is inedible, I'm locked in by your disgusting manservant every night," she continued. "So you tell me what I'm supposed to do with myself when I'm not allowed to go anywhere, speak to anyone or do anything except stare out of that stupid window at the stupid waves!" she pointed aggressively at the dark windows then took a deep breath.

Her body prickled with heat – she felt sweat at the nape of her neck, and her cheeks were on fire. She grabbed the lapels of her dressing gown and fanned herself with them – the room suddenly felt very warm. _Stupid candles_, she inwardly groaned.

"…It's hot in here, I'm sorry," she apologised, brushing sticky strands of blonde hair out of her face.

"Take off your dressing gown," Beckett suggested passively in a throaty whisper.

"Thank you," she replied.

She shrugged out of it and threw it behind onto the bed, too flustered to detect his suggestion as anything other than an attempt to settle her anger. When she turned back to face him, he was staring at her fiercely – a tropical storm in his eyes.

"What?" she blinked.

She suddenly realised how close he was standing. She could smell the musky remnants of aftershave clinging to his neck and to the peppered dark stubble on his chin – the scent made her weak. She smelt that scent on her body and on her pillow every morning. She watched hungrily when he licked his lips and lowered his eyes before he spoke – his voice was soft.

"I thought I'd made a very obvious suggestion as to how you might occupy your evenings whilst on board," he said.

His eyes flashed to hers – an intimate allusion behind the raised eyebrows and a suddenly hot gaze. Her skin felt tight.

She pursed her lips and frowned – mock perplexity. "Obvious suggestion? Well it obviously wasn't obvious enough," she replied with a sigh.

"The inner door to the Charting Room – _your door_ – isn't left unlocked solely for _my_ benefit, sweet," Beckett whispered.

She held her breath and felt a sharp, oppressive flush wash through her when his cold fingers stroked up her arm – her pores prickled in their wake. They stroked softly across her forearm, over her elbow and pausing near her shoulder – where the capped sleeve of her shift began. She swallowed hard – she wanted that touch elsewhere, beneath the shift – across her bare navel and along the smooth skin along the inside of her thighs.

He took a step forward. She took one back.

With no room to step back into, she fell against the bed post instead. The carved wood stabbed through her thin cotton nightgown – she arched her back and gasped. When Beckett's eyes dipped and penetrated the almost invisible material, she suddenly realised just how thin the shift really was. The heat from his bare torso soaked through it and made her feel sticky and humid when he stepped even closer. Suddenly self conscious, she narrowed her eyes and attempted to subtly cover the sheer fabric across her chest with folded goose-pimpled arms.

Beckett took a moment to scoff at her embarrassment – a sharp exhalation of breath that was supposed to be a cruel laugh – then he snatched her wrists and pressed her against the bed post. Elizabeth clenched her fists against his hold but didn't attempt to struggle – he was too strong, his cold hands wound around her wrists like iron shackles and pressed uncomfortably against her pulse. She winced as she felt it throb.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, watching in horror as he forced her hands behind her back and around the bedpost.

"If I'd wanted you to act like a virgin forever, I wouldn't have married you Elizabeth," he groaned, holding her wrists tightly in one hand and delving into his pocket with the other – his breath washed her face – the strong scent of brandy.

"Excuse me?" she spat.

"You're an intelligent woman, why don't you to take the initiative once in a while instead of sneaking around in the dark, and peering through cracks in doors like some curious chambermaid," he added silkily.

The black ribbon slipped from his pocket like a snake – satin shining like liquorice. He cracked it open like a whip, watching her flinch with a licentious curl in his lips, then brought it softly across her wrists. He wrapped and twirled the ribbon blindly, preferring to watch her changing expressions than what he was doing. Close enough, he could see the nervous flutter of her lashes, and hear every breath she held.

"…Consider this the last time I go out of my way to satisfy you," he continued, smoothing the satin across her veins. "I've been quite lenient until now…"

She shuddered. "Lenient? But–"

"Things are going to be different in London, I won't have the time nor the patience for seduction," he said, looping the black satin and binding her hands together. "No more suffering in silence – I've grown tired of having to work out whether you're wanton or not by the colour of your cheeks."

"What? But–" she stuttered.

"When you're wet with desire you'll come to me – it's as simple as that – and I'll be more than happy to have you," he whispered sinuously against her lips. "You'll do as I say and won't argue – it'll be easier and more pleasurable for both of us, do you understand?"

"Lord Beckett, I…" Elizabeth protested, clenching her thighs together to quell the agonising pressure building between them.

"_Do you understand_?" he repeated firmly, finishing the binding with a tight knot on top. He pulled it hard and it hurt.

Elizabeth tested the ribbon and attempted to break free, rubbing and twisting her wrists. But the binding was solid. A sailors knot – the Highwayman's Hitch – it may as well have been shackles.

"Ouch – yes, I understand," she breathed – embarrassed, she stared down at his bare feet.

"Good."

His cold fingers lifted her chin roughly – _look at me_, he silently demanded, but all he got were heavy brown lashes and flushed skin – a strand of blonde hair fallen across her nose. So he slapped her – hard – a rough ink-stained palm across her peach cheekbone that forced her to look at the bed, along with a crack which resonated loudly in the silent room. He waited, then cupped her chin again and tilted her head to face him, this time she looked him square in the eye with thunder in her brown eyes.

"That was for the brandy glass," he whispered – almost apologetically if it hadn't been for the pleasure and triumph clear in his eyes.

He took her lips angrily – stubble rough against her chin – sucking on her trembling lower lip, biting it hard when she didn't reciprocate and licking languidly when she did. She breathed him in and tried to swallow him whole, the aftershave and brandy, and the humid air between them made up of sighs and moans. His hands made up for the lack of hers – possessively squeezing her breasts and the flesh on her hips, fisting sections of her cotton shift, and both cradling and raking through her scalp. He tugged the soft tendrils of her hair and bared her neck – biting the scented flesh at the base then licking straight back up over her chin and across her lips. Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath – swollen and sticky at the juncture of her thighs.

When he gathered the hem of her shift and attempted to lift it over her head, he hesitated – unable to because of the binds. Elizabeth whimpered at the interruption.

"Just rip it…" she breathed into his ear, nuzzling into his neck.

He bit down on her collar bone and brought his hands to the low neckline of the shift – ripping and tearing apart it right down the middle. Frantically, he pushed the remnants of it over her shoulders and down her arms as far as it would go, baring her completely – nude and willing – crucified to the bedpost.

Whilst dragging his open lips across her breasts and sternum, he ran a hand gently along the inside of her thigh – his signet ring stinging the flesh and a rough fingernail leaving a red scratch. The stroke was only momentary, shortly after he grabbed her thigh and roughly hooked it up over her hip – holding it there with one hand whilst the other rushed obsessively to her warm, slick apex. He kissed her thoughtlessly whilst he parted her with his fingers and rubbed her with his thumb – smearing her with her own desire. She bit his lip and strained against the binding – the satin chafing like wire. One finger, two – more – curling, choking in wet velvet. She arched her back, moaned and bit the ceiling, and then it was his turn.

Her head lolled against the bedpost whilst he unlaced and forced the breeches down over his hips, letting them drop around his ankles. He grabbed her again, hitching one leg back over his bare hip, and then the other – whilst she grabbed the post for support with her bloodless, bound hands and locked her ankles at the base of his back. She sank onto him – wet – with a gentle grin. She was satisfied when she heard him choke on a deep moan.

He drove up into her, grinding her forcefully into the post and when he came, his voice was muffled by the sweet-scented hollow of her neck – sweat mingled with both her perfume and his aftershave. He gently let her down and untied the satin ribbon bound around her wrists – silently removing her shift, bunching it, then throwing it across the room. Elizabeth fell into the bed and twisted herself in the silky bedclothes, whilst Lord Beckett crossed the room, opened her bottle of brandy and poured her a glass. The trickle of amber liquid made her sit up. He brought it to her and she took it gratefully, all smiles and rosy cheeks.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

With a stifled scream, she came – the lantern still swinging over her head and the sound of the waves still crashing the hull. Sated, she sighed and rolled onto her side and dragged the covers back up over her body. She fell asleep almost instantly, black satin ribbons and London on her mind.

Outside, Lord Beckett removed his ear from her cabin door and quickly hurried back to his own, almost stepping blindly on the broken glass along the way.

* * *

** More soon...**


	12. In Drag

**Obligatory Disclaimer -** I own none of this... except Admiral Rupert Hewitt (I guess...) - and have not a penny to my name, so don't sue. Ah yes, the snippet is from Susan's Adventures

**Comments -** Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews! Apologies for the long wait - I have excuses, but I won't go into them, I'll get right on with the update - it's been too long!

**Warnings- **Beckabeth to the core - if it aint your cup of tea then best look away - though I find most people are easily persuaded over to the Beckabeth ship ;)

For all my fellow Cutlerettes and faithful readers - Merry Christmas and a Happy 2009! :)

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The Fortunate Mistress - Part XII - 'In Drag'

_Young Susan was a blooming maid,_

_So valiant stout and bold,_

_And when her sailor went on board_

_Young Susan we are told,_

_Put on a jolly sailor's dress,_

_And daubed her hands with tar_

_To cross the raging seas for love_

_Aboard a man-of-war._

Swollen and breathless, Elizabeth rolled onto her side and sighed sweetly – a smirk smeared across her lips. For the first time in nearly an hour, the cool air of the cabin touched her bare skin – prickling the flush pink pores, from the nape of her neck to her toes – tangled in the sticky sheets. She plumped the pillow beneath her head and relaxed into it, the scent of her husband's skin clinging to it.

The cabin betrayed a swift seduction in its undone state, the table in the centre of the room was still cluttered with the remnants of dinner. A leg of pork sat on a silver plate as the centrepiece half-carved, its orange and cherry glaze still glistening in the candlelight. Smaller plates of buttered vegetables surrounded it, buttered potatoes, carrots and cabbage – and a boat of Cream Pease Soup sat congealing in corner, the serving spoon clotted with it and resting beside on a plate. Two half-empty glasses of tawny port painted red rings on the white table cloth and both dining chairs were pushed away from the table. A trail of clothes led from the table to bed: a burgundy silk waistcoat, stained napkins, black stockings, two bunched pairs of breeches and shirts, a rogue fork from the table and a white powder wig – sitting on the polished floorboards beside the bed, half covered by the red counterpane dragging from the mattress above.

Shivering naked in the cool air, Elizabeth reached down to grab the counterpane from the floor.

"Don't you dare," said the tired voice behind her as Lord Beckett reached over her body and snatched her wrist.

He quickly wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against him, curling his warm body against hers from behind – his breath bristling through the fine blonde hairs at the nape of her neck. Elizabeth grinned and closed her eyes.

"I've never spent so scandalous an hour with a Tar," Beckett purred into her ear.

"Never?" she smiled.

"Never, sweet," he replied – planting a soft kiss on her bare shoulder. "Hewitt's clearly on to something."

Elizabeth laughed quietly as she drew circles on the ink stained hand that was holding her to him – but the smile accompanying the laugh soon faded away. "Well, you'd better savour the moment because it's back to petticoats as soon as we reach London."

Beckett exhaled loudly. "I'm afraid so," he agreed. "Not unless you fancy a mention in The Gent's Magazine or The Cuckold's Chronicle as an unhinged harlot."

"The Cuckold's Chronicle?" Elizabeth repeated, confused.

"Yes," he sighed loudly again, sounding almost exasperated. "You'll soon discover, Elizabeth, that London is an omnipresent being – nothing escapes it." He said sourly. "Our breed cannot put a foot out of place without its print appearing somehow on a scandal sheet, or being immortalised in an erotic engraving – and these publications tend to favour female indiscretions to male ones."

Elizabeth's brow clenched as she imagined it all. Fallen women, exposed and naked in black ink – laughed at in the ale houses.

"I worked far too hard to salvage your reputation as a virtuous young woman who was kidnapped by pirates, for it to be called into question all over again," he continued.

"So back to petticoats, then?" Elizabeth groaned.

"Yes," Beckett replied, planting another kiss on her shoulder.

The cabin was silent for a moment – only the sound of the ticking clock on the wall and the occasional wooden creak of floorboards could be heard. Elizabeth yawned then closed her eyes, ready to succumb to her heavy limbs and drooping eyelids and fall asleep – but she opened her eyes when she felt Lord Beckett's fingers gently stroke their way across her ribs one by one. His flat palm then descended her torso, over the smooth curve of her hips before settling on her thigh – his signet ring leaving behind it an icy trail.

"In public," he suddenly added in a sinuous whisper, his lips brushing her ear. "Perhaps in private we can come to some sort of arrangement..."

* * *

It had all begun earlier that evening, when the drifting storm clouds began to blush pink in the Endeavours wake as it sailed East into another empty night. Elizabeth sat alone in her cabin – scribbling thoughts into her journal whilst the sunset poured through the windows and painted the tip of her feather quill orange. There was never really much to write about – only the conversations she overheard, worries, memories and what the weather outside was like. But it was a constant in her daily routine, something that kept her occupied and passed the time.

"…_The solitude's becoming unbearable. I spent this morning counting the floorboards again – 36. I counted twice, don't know where my previous total of 38 came from, there are __clearly__ 36. I also realigned the paintings. The weather's been calm these past few days, and the waves seem to be shrinking – so that's probably why the paintings haven't moved as much as they usually do. I'm afraid that I'll continue this habit when we reach London! That I'll go around the house expecting the paintings to have slipped during the night and then receive strange looks from the servants…"_

Approaching footsteps and a sudden knock on the Charting Room door startled her. She threw her quill into the ink pot, closed the journal and frantically tied her dressing gown shut. She'd come to recognise the specific three rap knock, and knew that it was never a request to enter – instead just an obligatory herald before he went ahead and barged his way in anyway.

"What do you want, Mercer?" she snapped, looking up from the table and quirking a dark eyebrow at him just as the door swung open and hit her bed with a clunk.

He stood in the doorway and cast a grim shadow across the table, the hazy sunlight from the window shining across his face – highlighting the pock marks over his sunken cheeks. He was carrying a lantern – the flame inside barely visible. He'd brought it for her so she could use the candle to light her cabin when it grew dark enough.

"Evenin' Milady," he nodded. "I trust you've 'ad an enjoyable day?"

Elizabeth sent him look. She hated her husband's pet slug - she wanted to spend as little time with him as she possibly could. But human interaction, however base, and however repulsive the particular human in question was, was just undeniable. She needed it desperately.

"Fan-tastic," she replied dryly as she stood up and crossed the small cabin to put her journal back on the book shelf. "You see this painting here?" she said, pointing to the painting on the wall beside the bookcase – a landscape of a busy dock, with a large ship being loaded. "I've given all these people names," she shrugged, pointing to the tiny figures bustling about the ship.

Mercer was unamused. "Did you want to know my reason for being 'ere Milady, or not?" he asked as he stepped forward and placed the lantern on the table. The flame inside fluttered.

"There's a reason?" Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "…you mean you _haven't_ come to annoy me?"

"His Lordship requests the _pleasure_ of your company for dinner," he replied ironically – answering her snide remark with the bitter tone of his voice, and the way he emphasised the word 'pleasure.' "Can't think why."

"Oh," Elizabeth blinked, a little confused – Lord Beckett seemed to prefer eating alone whilst at sea. "Is there a special occasion I'm not aware of? A blue moon perhaps?" she smirked, folding her arms across her chest.

Mercer hardened his gaze. "Not that I'm aware of Milady," he replied – refusing to indulge her obvious need for a conversation.

Elizabeth sighed, "Alright – what time?"

"Six – oh and uh, he requested that you make yerself… _presentable_," he replied, passing from her cabin to the Charting Room.

"Presentable?" Elizabeth repeated irritably.

Mercer paused as he leaned into the cabin and grabbed the door handle. "Presentable – and without the sarcasm," he said as he closed her cabin door.

Elizabeth crossed her tiny, cluttered cabin and fell onto her bed with a groan as the sound of Mercer's footprints faded beneath the sound of the waves. The cabin was getting darker by the minute and from beneath the cabin door, she could see a shaft of candlelight from the Charting Room seeping through.

"Presentable," Elizabeth whimpered as she eyed the various caskets and chests cluttering the floor of her cabin.

'Presentable' had been spontaneously given up three weeks ago. She'd decided that there really wasn't much point in attempting presentable until they arrived in England. After all, what was the use in getting up early to lace herself into her stays, cage herself inside hoops and layers of petticoats, and then rummage through the various coffers and caskets for a suitable dress only to spend the entire day just lazing around her cabin? Other than the occasional walk on the quarter deck in good weather there wasn't much point in being dressed at all. She'd began to feel like a lonely Queen Anne doll, dressed in pearls and lace but never going anywhere – spending every day as a bed ornament, propped up by the pillows with a lifeless painted gaze.

All that material and whalebone also wasn't particularly comfortable to be lounging around in. The stays made her ribs ache, the panniers and hoops were just awkward to sit down in, and she suffocated beneath the abundant layers of satin and silk. Polonaises, l'anglaises, sack-backs and brunswicks – too much fabric and hardly any point to them in such an environment. So, in their chests and boxes they remained – along with the various cosmetics and jewellery that also weren't being worn. Waiting for an occasion. Waiting for London.

Elizabeth sighed as she lifted herself off the bed and walked over to the table. She opened the lantern Mercer had brought and removed the candle – taking it around the room to light the fixed lanterns about the cabin. When she was finished and placed the candle back in its holder – she paused in front of the mirror and raised a critical eyebrow at her reflection.

In light of the fact that she never went anywhere and wanted to be bored out of her brain in comfort – Elizabeth had taken to not getting dressed at all. She lived him her soft cotton shift and silk dressing gown – all purpose, worn whether she was sleeping or eating and too comfortable to change out of. She only took them off on the rare occasion she was allowed a bath, fresh water on board being too valuable to waste.

Elizabeth ran her fingers through the greasy roots of her hair and pouted at her undone reflection and sallow skin. However hopeless she looked and however much a bit of rouge might have improved the reflection staring blearily back at her, she didn't just feel like getting dressed up, it was just too much effort. But, seeing as it had been specifically requested – she had no choice but to submit. She sighed loudly as she shrugged her shoulders and let her hands fall to her sides, then slumped to the floor and began rummaging in the various sized chests and trunks for something to wear.

From the largest trunk, she delved deep and found a pair of black stockings with red garters which she pulled on immediately – then she rummaged deeper, throwing out jewelled stomachers, velvet cloaks and satin gowns until she was sitting in a multicoloured sea of fabrics. Then, at the very bottom – her fingers brushed a rough fabric that seemed out of place compared to smooth texture of the silks and satins sleeping with it inside the trunk. With a puzzled frown she grabbed the item and lifted it out of the chest.

"What..?" she asked herself as she stared at the brown woollen breeches and wondered where they'd come from.

Intrigued, she dropped them into her lap and buried her hand in the trunk again. She hadn't packed many of the chests filled with her clothes, and wondered whether this particular trunk had actually belonged to Lord Beckett and somehow had gotten muddled and filled with her own clothes somehow – although admittedly, she knew that the worn and moth-eaten breeches weren't really his style. She sat up and fumbled with both hands, throwing the expensive items out until she was left with a discoloured shirt and some odd pairs of men's socks.

She gathered the shirt and breeches into a ball and held them to her chest, fingering the threadbare material idly while something of a mischievous ruse gradually came together in a smirk across her pink lips.

* * *

At precisely three minutes past six, Lord Beckett sat at the oval dining table in his cabin, cradling a glass of tawny port in his palm. He faced the cabin door, staring indifferently at the decadent spread that had been laid before him ten minutes ago, and now sat waiting impatiently – two full plates, two waiting glasses, but one empty chair. He listened to the clock count the seconds, swirling his glass and admiring the way the amber liquid inside caught the candlelight – until finally, he heard a door slam and the sound of delicate footsteps approaching.

When the door opened, he kept his eyes on the raised glass. "You're late," he said, acid hanging on the tip of his tongue.

"You summoned me, Lord Beckett," said the confident yet familiar female voice in the doorway.

Even through the distortion of the amber filled glass, he could tell that the figure standing in the doorway wasn't the woman he'd been expecting. He been expecting white lace and ribbons. He lowered the glass and came dangerously close to amusement when he finally came face to face with the figure.

She could have been so easily mistaken for an adolescent deck hand with her impish form and the threadbare masculine clothes that she wore – but she was betrayed by a subtle femininity radiating warmly from her. _Elizabeth_, he inwardly growled with an invisible quirk of his lips.

The creased shirt hung from her lithe frame almost elegantly – the collar falling across her shoulders, and through the semi transparent cotton he noticed the dusky outline of her breasts was clearly visible. The ragged hem was tucked untidily into a tattered pair of breeches that contoured the shape of her hips and thighs perfectly. They ended just below her knee where he noticed she was wearing a pair of her own stockings – the bright red garters undone and poking out from the dirty brown cuff. She wore her hair in a messy up-do that resembled a crew cut – blonde tendrils falling across her brown eyes. But her hands were the real giveaway – a dainty, clean pair resting on her hips, as well as a subtle seductive confidence that manifested itself in the way she stood there for his visual pleasure – grinning wildly.

"I summoned my lady wife," he finally replied wryly, hiding his pleasure.

"She has other plans, it seems," Elizabeth smirked, rolling the large sleeves up and over her elbows.

"Then she won't be coming, I suppose you may take her place," he said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him.

"Thank you, my Lord," she replied with a dramatic bow.

She rocked on her heels before approaching the table, biting her lower lip playfully when she noticed that her husband's usually unenthusiastic gaze was addicted to her hips and the way they swaggered beneath the breeches. She dragged the dining chair from beneath the table – but paused and gasped when she noticed the amount of food that was laid out on top of it.

"Good Lord, where on earth did all this food come from?" she blinked as she sat down and primly placed a napkin in her lap, unconsciously imagining she was wearing something that wasn't already spoiled and dirty. "Compared to the measly slithers of beef and table scraps I've been served the past few months, this is a feast! Or… do you eat like this every evening while everyone else has to manage with biscuits and grog?" she added with a scowl as she picked up her silver knife beside her full plate and began to cut into her slice of pork.

"I'm offended," Beckett replied coldly, doing the same.

"Sorry," Elizabeth smiled apologetically.

"This is the last of my supplement hamper and needs to be eaten before we arrive in England – which is why I requested that my wife join me," he explained dispassionately.

"England? We're close?" she asked eagerly.

"A day's sail from Plymouth – I expect we'll arrive in London early on Thursday – depending on the tide, of course," Beckett said.

Elizabeth took a mouthful and moaned, the meat was so tender. "But, surely you don't expect us to finish all this?! Look how much there is!" she said, pointing to the various dishes with her knife.

"Don't over exert yourself, what isn't eaten will be thrown – I have no intention of filling the new pantry with leftovers," he replied impassively – spooning a helping of the cherry and orange glaze onto his plate.

Elizabeth frowned thinking of all the food that was going to be wasted, "Thrown? But, what about the crew – I'm sure they'd be more than happy with a chance at the leftovers."

Beckett laughed as he reached for his glass. "Elizabeth," he whispered, amused. "Dogs fed table scraps learn bad habits."

Elizabeth's lower lip hung open. "Dogs?" she repeated incredulously. "Your indifference ceases to amaze me sometimes," she snapped, shaking her head as she continued with her meal.

"And your unwavering innocence ceases to amuse me," he replied, his gaze predatorial.

Elizabeth frowned and attempted to ignore the way he was looking at her – as well as crunching her toes and clenching her thighs to quell the warm ache that began to blossom at their apex.

For a while the conversation gave way to silence whilst they ate – only the creaking sounds of the hull, the swinging of the metal lanterns, and the sound of cutlery hitting the plate.

Elizabeth enjoyed every mouthful – her concentration wrapped up completely in the luxuriant food surrounding her, making up for the revolting salty food she'd had to put up with for the majority of the voyage. On the opposite side of the table, Lord Beckett moved at a slower pace – enjoying his meal, but quietly enjoying Elizabeth far more. She was a visual feast. He particularly liked the way the rich food was reddening her cheeks, as well as the almost scandalous depth of her neckline and more importantly, the fact that she clearly wasn't wearing anything beneath it – she may as well have been sitting there naked, he thought.

Eventually when they'd eaten enough, Elizabeth slumped against the back of her seat whilst Lord Beckett leaned across the table and topped up her glass with port. She snatched it lazily and took a sip, her brown eyes gazing over the crystal rim to the opposite side of the table where Lord Beckett was watching her closely, his lips quirked.

"What's wrong?" she asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

He took a deep swig from his glass, licking his lower lip before he spoke. "Dare I ask how you acquired those clothes?" he asked, his voice fluid.

Elizabeth laughed lightly. "Innocently, I promise," she said. "I was looking for something to wear and I found them buried at the bottom of one of my clothing trunks – I thought they might be yours and had gotten muddled into my belongings somehow."

"They're filthy and threadbare, you know I have far better taste than that," he said as he pushed his dinner plate to the side.

"Obviously – but I couldn't think of any other explanation," she shrugged, sitting up again.

She caught his gaze and licked her lower lip nervously – feeling a tropical, flush sweep across her body. His eyes were violent – fierce, his usual frosty gaze suddenly hot.

"You make a very beguiling Tar," he finally whispered smoothly.

"A Tar?" she replied, bashfully fingering the stem of her glass.

"Yes," Beckett said. "Though admittedly, not a very good one – you wouldn't last long on board ship without being discovered," he added, swirling his glass then taking a swig.

"Why not?" she pouted, leaning against the table and resting her cheek in her hand.

"I've never seen a sailor scrub the Quarter Deck whilst wearing red satin garters," he explained arrogantly with a lopsided grin. "…and, I'd imagine _those_ wouldn't go unnoticed for very long un-bound," he added pointing two fingers at her breasts.

Elizabeth frowned confusedly before glancing down and suddenly realising what he'd meant with a sharp flush – a mixture of shame and desire building inside of her. He smiled cruelly when she avoided his gaze and quickly crossed her arms over her chest.

"Don't cover them," he commanded in his soft monotone. "…and there I was imagining it was your intention for me to see them."

Elizabeth bit down on a soft smile and dropped her arms. "My 'unwavering innocence' wouldn't allow me to do such a thing… _and_, I completely forgot about the garters – I must have put them first, before I found the breeches," she teased, picking up her fork and idly playing with the unwanted food on her plate. "You also seem to have forgotten that I've done this before _and_ managed to get away with it," she added.

"Ah yes," Beckett replied. "I often wonder how you managed to deceive the crew of the Edinburgh Trader and remain undetected."

"Too easily," Elizabeth sighed, remembering the night she'd snuck into the East India Trading Company offices and snuck onto the trade ship in the darkness – the beginning of a long adventure. "I imagine you've come across a female stowaway or two over the years working for the Company," she asked.

"Never," he replied honestly. "Though an old friend came across one once on his voyage to the West Indies – Captain Rupert Hewitt – Admiral Hewitt he's known as now. He was trading opium from India to the Chinese for tea."

"What happened?" Elizabeth asked curiously – plucking an orange segment from the pork glazing and popping it in her mouth.

"Well… he was sailing south along the coast of Portugal, and the Gallant Anne – his ship – had suffered through a particularly bad storm and then lingering high winds for three days, which meant the majority of the crew hadn't had a chance to sleep in at least seventy two hours. They were all tired and ill-tempered. Anyway – this one evening Hewitt was dining in his cabin when he was interrupted by an angry cluster of the crew. They hammered on the doors and forced their way in – shoving this gangly, timid looking boy along with them. Tiny thing – barely eighteen, with these huge, terrified blue eyes. The crew complained that they'd found the boy sleeping on his watch – curled up in a net beneath the Bridge. They were furious – jeering at him, pushing him around – all of them looking for someone to hold accountable for their lack of sleep, including Hewitt," Beckett said, recounting the story his friend had bragged about years ago in an ale house off Covent Garden.

"What did he do?" Elizabeth asked, already captivated.

Beckett picked up his glass and took a delicate sip before continuing. "He punished the boy. He'd breeched Article Twenty Seven – negligently performing the–"

"…the duty imposed upon him," Elizabeth interrupted with a nod – she'd known the Articles of War well since she was a child, having seen them enforced first hand.

Beckett glared at her. "Don't interrupt me again," he warned.

"Sorry – go on," Elizabeth apologised, taking the bottle of port and pouring the final few droplets into her glass.

"Hewitt decided that the boy would have six strokes of the lash the following morning – lenient I think, given the circumstances. Anyway, they threw him in the brig overnight, and then they all assembled on deck at nine o clock in the morning to witness the flogging. The boy was brought out by the Bosuns Mate – trembling and tearful as he waited in front of the upturned grating where they carried out floggings. Hewitt read from the Articles, and then he called on the Bosuns Mate to commence the punishment. The boy struggled furiously when he was approached, but he was so small – so slight in stature that the Bosuns Mate overpowered him easily, tied him to the grating and then ripped the shirt from his back," he said.

"It was a girl," Elizabeth whispered.

"Obviously," Beckett drawled. "The Bosuns Mate saw the binding around her breast and called on Hewitt… and Hewitt, well he didn't believe that a woman could avoided detection on _his_ ship – he had to rip off the girl's binding to convince himself. She stood there bare breasted – shivering in the wind – while he mulled over the situation."

"What did he do? Surely he didn't continue with the punishment?" Elizabeth frowned, imagining the poor girl – helpless and half naked before the entire crew.

"No," Beckett replied softly. "He took her back to his cabin… fucked her, then threw her off the ship at Gibraltar Rock. The silly minx was trying to follow her lover to India apparently," he shrugged.

Elizabeth stared at her husband from across the table, watching in silence as he leaned back in his seat and cradled his glass of port proudly – his signet ring sounding on the expensive crystal. She felt as though she should have been shocked by the story – horrified by Hewitt's treatment of the girl. But sitting there, with the scent of candle wax, sea salt and cologne clouding the air, she realised she wasn't. Instead, a desirous excitement surged through her when Beckett's eyes – dark and piercing – flashed to hers.

"You wouldn't abandon _your_ Tar like that, would you?"

"_My_ Tar?" Beckett replied with a wry smirk.

When she nodded in response with a mischievous grin, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously – scrutinising her brown eyes, half hidden by the wispy strands of blonde hair that were caught in her lashes. Something was different. _She_ was different. Disturbingly, she seemed to have developed a sort of confidence around him.

"No," he finally replied, placing his half empty glass on the dining table. "Come here," he said, beckoning her with two fingers.

She obliged without hesitation, rushing to his side of the dinner table and straddling him instantly – falling against him with a sigh that sounded almost like relief. He watched her, bewildered by her desperation as she smoothed her palms over the burgundy lapels of his coat and gazed fanatically at his lips.

"Elizabeth…?" he whispered before she finally brushed her lips her lips against his and breathed him in – her eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheek.

Later, when she threw him down on the bed and sank onto him, warm and wet with a breathless moan – he lay back and wondered, what had changed?

* * *

**Stay tuned for Part XIII - 'In Public' Merry Christmas everyone! :)**


	13. Public Place

**Obligatory Disclaimer - I write, therefore I do not own.**

**Comments - This one turned out a little... differently... completely unplanned and unintended - but then this whole piece seems to be heading into realms of the unknown recently. It's attempting to grow a plot, and I think I'm going to sit back and let it do what it wants...! Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter - _Jessi Norrington_, _Hajnalmadar_ and of course _PrincessofTheValerious_ who is my Beckabeth partner in crime ;-)**

**Warnings - Slightly dark carriage kink, rated M for a reason. Unabashed Beckabeth follows, if it isn't your cup of tea, best give this one a miss. This is for the featured nameless whore without a nose whom I totally exploited to write this smutlet. God knows there were a hell of a lot of them stumbling around London drunk on gin in the 18th century... Poor ladies.**

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**The Fortunate Mistress – Chapter XIII – 'Public Place'**

'_When a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.'_

_(Samuel Johnson)_

Dawn was breaking through the autumn smog when the Endeavour floated down the Thames and finally moored itself to the West India Docks at Limehouse after nine weeks at sea. The grey clouds and heavy smog suffocated the morning light – changing its colour to a sickly yellow and sagging over the rooftops, church spires and the tall masts of ships crowding the river.

Having had London burning softly in the back of her mind since they'd left Port Royal, Elizabeth had woken early to look out from her cabin window into the blue dawn – counting the glowing torches leading the way, lining the river from Southend to Southwark until London surrounded her. Fully dressed and with all her belongings packed up – as her husband had commanded – she knelt on top of her unmade bed and pushed open the cabin window to breathe in the city for the first time in nearly thirteen years. She expected crisp air, frosty against her cheeks and fresh in her lungs – different to the muggy, sultry air of the Caribbean – and silent too she decided, except for the sound of seagulls and a distant bell whispering the early hour to a city fast asleep. But when she leaned out of the window and took that first deep breath – she spluttered it straight back out and quickly threw her hand over her mouth and nose.

"God," she grimaced, her voice muffled by her fingers while she frantically reached with her other hand to close the window.

Instead of the clean breeze she'd expected, she was hit by air that was heavy – laden with thousands of different stenches all coming together to create the pungent pong she'd repressed from her memories. It rose straight from the murky depths of the river and lingered on the fog – a brown stew of mud, shit, urine and the guts of dead fish – the smell of their bones and blood drifting down from the fish market at Billingsgate.

The noise wasn't any better. A headache inducing concerto of sounds which were anything but melodic. Seagulls screeched as they floated on the fog, bells all over the city and in the Custom House sounded the hour, shouting could be heard on the dockside as well as on every other ship bobbing on the tide nearby. They all bumped and creaked against each other, creating a tangled creaking wooden causeway across the river.

With a weary groan, Elizabeth locked the window and slipped from the bed. Until late last night she'd been excited to see London again – impatient to be outside instead of cooped up in her tiny cabin with nothing to do. Her 'floating prison,' she'd called it. But suddenly the thought of leaving it was unnerving – like having to get out of bed after an incredibly long and satisfying lie in. It would have been different if it wasn't for the fact that she was just being transferred from one sort of prison to another.

"_I meant what I said about London, you know…I won't let you lock me away…"_

She walked across her cabin to the mirror leaning against the wall – waiting to be offloaded – and frowned critically at her reflection. With a sigh, she tidied the fox fur-lined hood of her grey cloak and slipped on a pair of kid gloves. Then, with a leather glad hand, she pulled back the curled blonde hair shrouding her shoulders and ran a finger over the large purple bruise blossoming below her ear – her dark brow furrowed. His hallmark – the colour of ink and red wax.

When the doors to her cabin swung open, her stomach clenched and she quickly flicked her hair to cover her neck. Mercer entered, accompanied by several members of the crew.

"These gents've come to fetch yer things – they need you out," he said – gesturing to the men as they moved around the cabin picking up crates and shifting them out noisily. "All these here crates – take what you see and get on with it," he shouted at them.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and nodded, "Right, of course."

"His Lordship's waiting fer you up on deck, Milady," he added absently with a shrug – paying more attention to the men carrying things past him.

She was hustled out of the cabin between a man carrying her mirror and two men struggling with a heavy crate full of her books – barely able to steal a final glance of the tiny room where she'd spend the past nine weeks in silence.

As she passed through the French doors leading out on deck, the bitter autumn wind ripped beneath her cloak and through her hair. Shuddering, she threw the hood over her head and held it shut with one hand, using the other to hold her nose against the smell of the river. The deck was chaotic – men rushing around with crates and lifting larger cargo from below deck and down onto the dock with the help of a large wooden crane. A roped plank connected the Endeavour to the dock, and Lord Beckett stood waiting beside it – watching the offloading with a judgmental gaze, looking arrogantly authoritarian dressed in black and resting a hand on his silver cane.

Elizabeth suckled on her lower lip as she walked towards him. She often thought of that cane as her objective self – the way Lord Beckett held it and touched it was far too similar to the way he held and touched her. Possessive and controlling. Watching him softly roll his thumb over the engraved silver head reminded her of the way he often smoothed his thumb across her cheek, before – depending on his mood – he either kissed her or shoved her away.

The previous night he'd been in a rough, shoving mood. He'd tattooed a ruby bracelet around her wrist with forceful fingertips, pulled her hair and split her till she was sore. He hadn't called her his 'Tar.' The sudden change was bewildering, but she'd tolerated it to the point of enjoying it because of that feral, desperate look in his eyes that came before all the hurt. No one, not even Will, had ever looked at her that way.

"Here I am – shall we go?" she asked, stopping beside him – her voice nasal because she was still holding her nose.

Lord Beckett slowly turned to face her – simmering irritation in his eyes. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm trying really hard not to breathe," she squeaked. "That smell... it's awful."

"It's the river," he replied, seemingly unaffected by it.

"Well, I'm about to gag – can we please leave now and get as far away from it as possible?" she begged.

When he replied, there was amusement in his voice. "The river runs through London, it's virtually impossible to escape it – but I daresay you'll find the stench far more tolerable in St. James' Square," he drawled.

When he offered her his arm – even though the frosty glare accompanying it made the gesture more of a demand – Elizabeth had to decide whether it was more important to hold her nose or hold her cloak together. She decided on the latter, begrudgingly removing the hand from her nose and dropping it onto the smooth black material covering her husbands elbow. Her fingers crept round his arm delicately, and she was careful not to hold too tight or squeeze in case she felt the firm flesh lurking beneath the silky veneer.

As Lord Beckett led her down the plank and onto the West India dockside, Elizabeth gazed wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her surroundings. The West India Docks were a hive of activity, strangely crowded for so early in the morning. Sailors trundled barrels and boxes around the dock and on and off of ships, then grouped together to sit on them, smoke tobacco and cow call the ladies who passed with mud across their dimpled cheeks selling fruit and meat pies in baskets. Gentlemen in malting periwigs swaggered between the offices lining the dock – soliciting sailors, prostitutes and cargo with purses filled with gold. Every piece was exotic – from bananas and powdered spices, to Chinese silks and slaves in chains. The morning tide was clearly a profitable time of day.

A black carriage with a gold EITC insignia on the door was waiting in front of a small crowd outside the Baltic Exchange. Lord Beckett led Elizabeth past their curious stares and helped her into the carriage, before hopping swiftly inside and taking the plush red velvet seat opposite her. He removed his hat, beat the roof with his cane and the carriage departed.

Though it clattered noisily down the highway, inside, the carriage was silent. Elizabeth peeled back the velvet curtain, removed her hood and watched with morbid curiosity as London drifted by – aware that her husband was watching her with equal curiosity.

She found everything so different to how she'd remembered it, and realised that her father had gone out of his way to hide her young eyes from the reality of the poorer side of the city. Now she knew why, and was glad she was only peering into the world from behind a pane of glass.

The labyrinth of muddy backstreets and alleys were crowded with houses toppling over into the streets with windows that were either bricked up or smashed. Kennels carved through them were filled with a brown slurry of elm leaves, broken glass and dead cats. A ragged old women, toothless and with damp hair clinging to her leathery neck stumbled around with a gin bottle, screaming at passers-by. Prostitutes leant bare-breasted out of open windows – inviting merchants, and passing sailors who'd just received their pay.

It reminded her of Tortuga – only far, far worse.

She turned away from the window and caught her husband's penetrative gaze with doe eyes. Her hands clenched in her lap – fidgeting nervously with the seam of her glove.

"Does it upset you, sweet?" he asked. There was humour instead of concern in those cold eyes, his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

"No…" she shook her head harder than she'd meant to and avoided his gaze by looking out of the window again. "Every city has its slums."

"Yes, but none quite like London's," he replied proudly. "The pox infested arse-end of English society – nothing but a festering hole for vice and disease."

"No need for the lurid metaphor – I can see for myself," she frowned.

"Don't worry," he continued dryly – tidying the lace cuffs of his shirt. "We're merely passing through – this is far from the world you'll inhabit."

Elizabeth scoffed – her breath fogged the window, misting the girl who passed by selling oranges from her grey petticoats. "Not that far," she replied, her soft eyes flicking between his face and the window as she spoke. "We're all to share the same city aren't we?"

"Share? Hardly," he interrupted with a breathy laugh.

"Yes – share," she nodded. "We don't live in different worlds, _my lord_. I think it's rather we all live in the same world, just on very different sides of it – and I can't for the life of me decide which is worse – being on _your_ side, or theirs," she argued.

"Interesting analogy – how very womanly of you," Beckett remarked dryly.

Elizabeth released a frustrated sigh. "Yes, of course I forgot – men and women inhabit different worlds too, don't they?" she snapped sarcastically – slumping into her seat and crossing her arms over her chest.

Her words ebbed on the sound of carriage wheels scraping across cobbled stone. He didn't reply to her snipe – instead simply regarded her for a quiet moment with a smirk whilst she pretended to look out of the window. He scrutinised her like a portrait – enthralled, with both criticism and admiration in his eyes.

She felt them on her, and they very quickly made her uneasy. "What?" she complained, furrowing her dark eyebrows.

"You should be grateful to be _on my side_, Elizabeth," he warned. "Young girls just as lovely as you but without your privileges tend to wilt and rot on those streets. So many of them – such a shame."

She thought he was teasing her for a moment, but when she looked at him – the look in his eyes was firm, made even more frightening by the dark curl on his lips. She should have known better. Lord Beckett didn't tease, he tortured – and the vulnerable look he dragged from her gave him pleasure.

When the carriage abruptly came to a halt on a corner, blocked by another waiting outside a coffee house – Elizabeth peered through the window, her vision held hostage by a whore accosting from a bricked up doorway. Her true age was a mystery, hidden beneath threadbare stockings and skirts with ripped sleeves – the lace there hanging like dank cobwebs. Her sandstone complexion was caked in white powder – clumps caught in the roots of her hair, thin blonde tendrils like wet straw. The inner seams of her dry lips were painted black, and most startling of all – the tip of her nose was missing.

When the woman looked towards the carriage, Elizabeth felt a lump in her throat.

"You've gone pale, sweet," Beckett said – his voice startling her, pulling her attention from the window.

She smiled through clenched pink lips. "I'm cold, that's all," she lied, rubbing her gloved hands together and blowing into them. "Not used to the air here yet."

"Perhaps I can help," Beckett whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, I'm fine…" she said gratefully.

But it hadn't been an offer. "Come here," he insisted with dark eyes and crooked fingers. "Let me see if I can put a flush back into those pretty cheeks."

His words held her attention, as did his gaze. That same feral, predatorial look. It burned though her – tightened her skin. She pursed her lips and raised a derisive eyebrow.

"No thank you," she refused, turning her head back to the window.

The harlot outside was letting her hair down – shaking it out and lifting the ragged hem of her skirt over her thighs.

Beckett released a weary breath. "Then I'll come to you," he said.

"No – not here," she pleaded as he got up and in a fluid motion moved into the seat next to her – crushed against and on top of her skirts. "Beckett–"

"Shut up," he commanded in a whisper, his hand burying between the velvet seat and the small of her back.

When the other hand smoothed the satin fabric across her thigh, Elizabeth feigned irritancy with a groan. She turned her cheek and watched the harlot outside displaying her dirty ankles – dipping her toes in the gutter. Her feet were small, delicate almost.

She felt Beckett bathe the nape of her neck with his breath – burying his nose in the blonde curls there – and closed her eyes. Too weak – his presence, the warmth from his hands and body and the scent of his cologne taming her like a colt.

When she opened her eyes, the harlot was watching her.

Noticing her head was still turned to the window, brushed his lips against Elizabeth's ear. "What are you looking at?" he asked, lightly kissing the lobe.

When he craned his neck he saw Elizabeth's reflection in the window – absorbed brown eyes veiled by dark lashes. He noticed the wretch she was looking at and smirked.

"Ah… I couldn't have asked for a better example," he whispered, voice silken – his hand lifting from her lower back up and into her hair – twirling it around his fingers. "Hideous, isn't she?"

Elizabeth frowned, his words – and the pitiless, superior way he spoke them – peppered her blood as she watched the poor harlot outside hitch her skirts and beckon passing gentleman. She sucked on her lower lip and resisted the urge to snap at him – aware that her stomach was flitting constantly between hatred and desire. Beckett played masterfully with them both, aware that a line between two volatile emotions was either invisible or didn't exist at all. He could hurt her, make her heart bleed and create a rabid anger within her – then channel it into desire somehow, with a look, a whisper or an unpredictable gesture.

When he dragged his lower lip up her neck and planted a soft kiss on her pulse, her anger departed on a shaky, stuttery breath.

"I'll wage she was a pretty thing once," he murmured against her skin. "…Cheeks rosy without rouge – soft country lilt on her tongue…"

When he drew a line with the tip of his tongue along the corner of her jaw and untied her cloak, Elizabeth scrunched her toes and clenched her thighs together – pleasure thrumming softly between them.

His lips hovered near her ear, and when he spoke – his voice shuddered through her entire body. "…probably come to London to make her way as a ladies maid or a seamstress – barely sixteen…" he said, tacking a soft derisive laugh to the end of the sentence which bristled through the soft hairs falling beside Elizabeth's ear. "…No friends except for the toothless old bawd who smoothes a wrinkled hand across her cheek and offers her a room for the night…"

He brought the hand resting in her lap over her bodice, pushed the cloak over her shoulders and cupped her neck – icy fingertips touching the bruises there, the other side growing humid beneath hot breath and open mouthed kisses. Elizabeth swallowed and strangled a moan – her eyes still watching the harlot standing outside in the cold.

"…stop," she breathed as he buried his fingers beneath the collar of her bodice and pulled it down over her shoulder.

"Hush," Beckett replied, planting a kiss on the bare shoulder. "Of course, her generosity isn't without it's aims… she'll squander the girl's maidenhead for a couple of guineas…"

From her neck, his hand moved swiftly down across her collar bone and onto the warm swell of flesh above her laced stomacher – feeling it rise and fall beneath his fingers. Elizabeth licked her lips – her palms sweating inside the leather gloves. His voice – she was addicted to the sound of it.

"…then she'll learn the trade," Beckett continued, smearing a smirk in the hollow of her neck. "…earn a fair wage from the fleshy fruit between her thighs, porcelain skin – and the innocent look her eyes…"

Almost as innocently – Elizabeth bit her lip when he slipped his hand down into her bodice and beneath her stays, filling his palm with her breast – gently thumbing the tip. She turned her head and met his gaze – fierce and deep, and faces so close their noses brushed one another – moaning against his lips when he squeezed the flesh in his hand. The carriage finally moved away – leaving the harlot behind, merely a memory.

_She_ kissed _him_. Unable to wait – lunging for him on the end of a whimper. Open lips moulding around his slowly – demanding fulfillment.

"…perhaps she'll become well known," he breathed between a kiss. "…a fashionable courtesan with a wealthy protector – silk stockings, perfume, and diamonds… sells herself for fifty guineas a night."

Elizabeth grinned. "…and then?" she purred, needing to hear his voice while she kissed him – however cruel the conversation. In fact – the crueler the better.

He hissed when she bit down on his lip, "And then," a quick, deep kiss, "…she'll learn to specialise in something…" then another – her tongue, a quick flick. "…to attract a wider clientele," he smirked. "…flagellation perhaps – the pleasures of the birch."

When she buried her face in his neck – savouring the scent of his skin – he tore his hand from her breast and used it to throw her skirts over her knees. He cradled her head with the other, grabbing handfuls of blonde hair.

"…eventually…of course…her beauty will fade," Beckett rasped against her neck – pulling her hair until she lifted her chin and bared it for him. "…She'll lose her admirers… and their pockets – open your legs," he commanded in a whisper.

She obeyed; parting her thighs and feeling the cool air lick the juncture, followed instantly by his fingers. He brushed two of them along its moist delta – tips wading through a warm pool, smooth and slippery.

"…Christ," he growled.

When he plunged them inside and sought out her clit with his thumb – she sucked in a sharp breath and released it on a hoarse moan.

Beckett smirked. "Indebted… she'll languish in jail…" he continued, stroking his fingers in and out of her then rubbing her in circles – watching her buck and roll her hips with him. "…bargained off to anyone who'll have her by the jailor himself."

He watched her clench her fists in her skirts and grind desperately into his hand – her shoulders shaking as she let go of each desperate gulp of air. She came quickly and cried out – her voice hoarse, strangled by the short, sharp bursts of breath.

The final tremors of her climax had barely ebbed when Beckett removed his hand from between her thighs and snatched her wrist – pulling her roughly against him, his fingers greasy against her skin. Elizabeth gasped, challenging his hard gaze with startled brown eyes.

"Now sweet," he said – his voice low and threatening. "Aren't you grateful to be on my side of the world?"

Elizabeth's lower lip trembled. "Mm hm," she nodded – her voice a whimper.

After he shoved her back into her seat and pulled the skirts back down over her knees, she purred in his ear, removed her glove and offered to return the favour. They reached St. James' Square quicker than expected however, and when the carriage came to a sudden halt – Lord Beckett wiped the condensation from the window and groaned.

"Bloody hell, we're here," he complained.

He stilled her hand and reached for his cane – then, banging the roof with it, told the driver to take another turn around the block.

* * *

**Look out for Chapter XIV - 'Threesome,' wherein more of a plot starts to develop (though I should add that it won't contain an actual threesome, just a cheeky use of the prompt!)... ooh. More soon.**


	14. Threesome

**Obligatory Disclaimer - I write therefore I do not own, but I like to play.**

**Comments - Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed Chapter XIII - I know I've been writing this for a long time now and sometimes it takes me a little while between updates to get my head screwed on and in the smut writing zone, so it's awesome to find people still reading and reviewing after all this time. And I promise, I'm nowhere near done yet - and there's plenty of pure filth (and possibly some fluff... oh!) to come.**

**WARNINGS - Bad language ahead. Also, I'd like to reiterate that the following chapter does NOT contain a threesome - just in case anyone was worried. I promise, smut shall follow forthwith, forsooth in the following chapter - 'Paint.' I'm also introducing a contraversial OC - not sure if it's been done yet, so let me know what you think about 'her' (I wish I could see your faces, I just know you're all looking baffled!). As always, unabashed Beckabeth - avert thine eyes if it's not your cup of tea.**

* * *

**The Fortunate Mistress - Part XIV - 'Threesome'**

'_Two's company; three's a crowd.'_

_(Old Proverb)_

Among the residents of St. James's Square there included; five earls, seven dukes, six duchesses – one disgraced, three Lords (soon to be four), an elderly countess, a courtesan called Dolly Fletcher, and the much celebrated male actor, Quill Lawrence. Their homes were among the most desired and fashionable in London – sketched out by the best architects in the country, built from the finest materials available, and decorated to the most expensive of tastes.

Even the mud on the unpaved piazza was the cleanest in London.

Elizabeth's first glimpse of her new matrimonial lair was from the window of her husbands carriage. When it rattled to a halt in a dark, shadowy corner of the square, she wiped her gloved fingers across the window – grey with condensation – and anxiously peered out.

A wall of smooth, sand-coloured stone loomed over her – three storeys high above the street, and an iron railed cellar below. The brickwork was elaborate, artistically arranged around long sash windows, and crowned with an intricate cornice along the horizontal roof. Through the second floor windows, grand ceiling chandelier glimmered and lit up the decorative ceiling of a large room – a twilight sky, fainting blue with peach clouds, blushing seraphim and floral moulding. The front door remained wide open whilst male servants in powdered wigs wandered in and out, carrying in wooden crates and furniture from a parked landau toppling with possessions.

Elizabeth chewed the inside of her cheek whilst she studied her new home. It certainly wasn't the grandest house on the street by any means – but it was far grander than any house she'd ever lived in. She couldn't remember much of her father's London home, the way it looked had long vanished from her memories. She only remembered the silly, curious things now – like the bald, ugly looking stone bust at the bottom of the stairs he dropped his periwig onto when he came home.

The hallway always smelt strongly of hair powder, she recalled.

When her carriage door was suddenly pulled open by the driver, Elizabeth flinched He held the door in silence, whilst Lord Beckett appeared from the other side of the carriage and offered her his hand – a gesture that was infected with tedious matrimonial routine. She took a moment to gather her skirts, hoops and cloak into a portable bundle, and when she finally placed her hand in his, he accepted it with an impatient glare.

"No need to hurry," he mumbled sarcastically.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and tutted. "Oh I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that we were in a rush," she snapped – stepping out of the carriage and onto the street, her petticoats flopping down the steps after her. "Why don't _you_ try manoeuvring through doors and down steps with the skeleton of a bloody whale attached round your waist!"

As soon as her toe touched the soft mud on the street he let go – his warm fingers slipping away as he turned and scaled the stone steps that led up to the front door with an amused grin she wouldn't see.

Whilst he vanished inside, Elizabeth lingered in the cold – glaring into the empty depth of the square and peering curiously through the windows of the house next door. She was disturbed by the silence of the square in contrast to the rest of London, with only the sound of water spraying from the fountains in the middle of the square and the wind whistling along its four walls. Next door, Coal Heavers were delivering brass buckets of coal to a chambermaid waiting in the doorway and rubbing her hands against the cold. When Elizabeth looked up into the long windows on the second floor, an elderly woman with a white cloud of curls on her head glared back down at her with a sour expression.

With a strange mixture of amusement and embarrassment, Elizabeth smiled and lowered her eyes as she climbed the stone steps and crossed the threshold into her new home – slipping the cloak from her shoulders and folding it over her arm.

The first thing she noticed was the sound of her heeled shoes on the marble floor. Hollow footsteps – clip, clipping off the white and gold Boiserie panelling, and resonating through the spacious entrance hall and up the sweeping staircase. Her husband's portrait sat leaning against the banister, impatiently waiting to be hung somewhere conspicuous.

The subject of the painting however, stood in a corner near the front door, silently admiring her with dark eyes and a lopsided smirk.

"Should I assume by the lingering silence that the pirate is pleased?" Beckett asked, his monotone drawl echoing around the room.

Elizabeth shot him a quick glare over her shoulder – only briefly, before her eyes were dragged upwards to a vast chandelier of gold and crystal blossoming from a ceiling rose. Her lips formed a silent 'Oh!'

"Yes… yes, it's very fine," she replied – enthralled by her reflection floating inside the wall mirrors, and the light from the chandelier blurring in the polished floor.

"…It was previously owned by the French ambassador and his reluctant wife – I'm told," Beckett continued.

"Reluctant – how so?" Elizabeth asked, inspecting the gilt frame of her husband's portrait.

"They say, she was intolerably homesick – _very_ French, couldn't speak a word of English… and his Excellency spent a fortune on a decorator to remodel the house in the French style simply to please her," he said.

His eyes traced her back. Her bodice and her blonde hair curling over the lacing was glossed with the light from the chandelier – catching it like moving water. When she lifted a hand to her cheek and tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear he licked his lower lip – glimpsing her profile – dark eyelashes fluttering against her pink cheek.

"Oh yes? How romantic," Elizabeth muttered, uninterested.

He scoffed. "He was banished back to France by the King last year – and rumour has it that his wife didn't return with him."

"Mm hm, and why was that?" she asked, removing one of her gloves and smoothing her bare hand across the mahogany banister.

"She'd run off with the decorator," he replied bluntly.

Elizabeth blinked at him. "No?!" she gasped – scandalised.

"C'est la guerre, sweet," Beckett purred. "His loss is our gain."

She struggled to translate. Her attempt to recall the few French lessons she'd experienced was impossible – her mind paralysed by the way his voice sounded when it smoothly rattled off French phrases.

Just as her thoughts finally came together to decide that 'C'est la' meant something along the lines of 'that is,' or 'such is' – her fingers scooped up a smudge of white powder clinging to the banister, more like fine chalk or flour than dust. She brought the tips to her nose and smelt it, smiling when she recognised the scent. It was hair powder, with its light and dusky fragrance of starch and orange flower.

"Care to explain why the banister is so amusing?" Beckett asked.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and bit down on the smile. "No… it's nothing."

His eyes were suspicious when she shook her head, then softly blew the powder from her fingers – fondly watching it dissolve into the air. They grew even harder, set below a slight frown when she returned her attention to his portrait and he noticed that although the intriguing smile had disappeared from her lips, it lingered on in her eyes.

Heavy footsteps approaching brought him back, and when he tore his gaze away from his frustratingly enigmatic wife, Mercer appeared beside him – wringing his hat between his leather-clad fingers.

"We were expectin' you sooner, Milord," Mercer announced – gruff impatience in his voice.

"We took a short – albeit, _pleasant_ excursion," Beckett replied – humour in his eyes as he gazed past Mercer and watched Elizabeth move his portrait forward to see the smaller ones hiding behind it.

Mercer frowned. "Sir," he continued eagerly. "There's someone…"

Beckett ignored him. "See to it that everything is placed its correct location – do you understand?" he said.

"…Sir, there's something…"

"_Do you understand?_" Beckett snapped – his eyes firm, voice biting.

"Yes, sir," Mercer sighed.

"There was something else…" Beckett continued.

"There is Sir, you see… yer–"

"…I noticed a mark on my desk when they were bringing it in – find out who's responsible, and deal with them," he interrupted, quietly.

"Done," Mercer replied.

Beckett grinned. "Good," he said, tidying the lace cuffs of his shirt.

When he looked up, Elizabeth was lifting a small oval portrait – tilting her head to admire it.

His grinned vanished – wiped clean off by the woman trapped within the frame.

Though he hadn't seen it for many years, he knew the painting well – his own father had commissioned it, perhaps only a year or so before his birth. The swirled black background and the colour of the woman's skin was too familiar – like pearl, shining off the canvas, and utterly naked if it hadn't been for the sheer linen fichu smeared in grey paint across her shoulders. Her brown hair rolled around her neck – adorned with pearls, and her black eyes smouldered off the canvas.

What he didn't know – nor could understand – was why the portrait was suddenly sitting in his hallway.

Beckett exhaled angrily through his nose. "What the fuck is that painting doing here?" he barked.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder with wide eyes – surprised by his sudden outburst. She put the portrait down – carefully.

"…that's what I've been trying to tell you, Sir," Mercer said.

Beckett glared at him. "What?" he demanded.

"_She's_ here," Mercer replied delicately.

Elizabeth frowned. "Who's here?" she asked – confused.

Heralded by the sound of a small dog barking, the doors to the drawing room swung open, and a middle aged woman, hidden beneath layers of ruched emerald satin, diamonds and lavender powder emerged from inside. She was balancing the yapping pug in one hand and holding an elaborate fan with the other – the ostrich plumes poking from her whipped grey wig stroking the ceiling as she glided into the entrance hall.

"Where is he, where is my son?!" she ordered, searching the room.

Beckett groaned. "Here," he said.

"_Son?_" Elizabeth repeated silently to herself – stunned.

"There he is, oh! Cutler," she sighed, floating across the room and embracing him. "Oh! My dear boy!"

Bemused and a little embarrassed, Elizabeth watched as the woman curled an arm around her husband's neck and ceremonially kissed his cheek, squashing the poor dog between them. Beckett stood statuesquely still. Cold and detached, his eyes were the colour of stone – betraying no emotion besides simmering irritation.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked when she pulled away.

"When a son refuses to send his _poor_ mother letters informing her of his whereabouts – she's forced find out through _other_ means," the woman snapped, swatting him on the shoulder with her closed fan. "And you _know_ that I have my ways…"

Elizabeth grinned. Lord Beckett had never bothered to mention his mother – now she understood why.

The small pug suddenly wriggled and barked louder than before. "Oh do be quiet Penelope!!!" she shouted – and strangely, the dog instantly obeyed.

"Why did you bring the painting?" Beckett frowned.

"Oh! Just a little house warming gift dear… you should display it in the ballroom perhaps – somewhere… _visible_. I want my grandchildren to see how beautiful their grandmother was in her youth…" she beamed, holding the tip of the fan to her heavily rouged lips.

"Bloody hell," Beckett grumbled beneath his breath.

"…ah yes, speaking of which… where's my daughter in-law… _the pirate_? I've been _so_ looking forward to meeting her," she grinned, twirling on her heel. "…Especially as I wasn't invited to the wedding," she added sarcastically.

Elizabeth straightened, smiling nervously as her mother-in-law approached like a feline stalking a terrified mouse.

"Lady Beckett," she smiled sweetly, dropping a short curtsey. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, I've heard–"

"Absolutely nothing about me, I know," she scoffed, raising an eyebrow and lifting Elizabeth's chin carefully with her fan – inspecting her. "…and Lady Beckett is _your_ name dear…"

Elizabeth bit her lip. "Oh, yes! I'm sorry, I…" she stuttered.

"I am the _Dowager_ Lady Beckett…" she rolled her eyes. "Dowager – such an awful word! But we'll have none of that – you shall call me _Althea_," she smiled.

"Althea," Elizabeth nodded.

"No-no-no-no-no… Al-_thay_-ah, dear – the 'e' is silent," she corrected tiredly.

"Oh," Elizabeth replied, puzzling over vowel sounds as Althea strolled away.

"Why don't we have tea?" she suggested, gesturing wildly with the closed fan. "Oh, but I imagine your tea service is all packed up."

"Yes. It is. What a shame," Beckett replied dryly.

Althea sighed dramatically. "Well then, it's a good thing I thought ahead and brought my own along, isn't it?" she said.

* * *

It was the most disorganised mid-morning tea Elizabeth had ever experienced.

The drawing room had been near empty – only a clumsy cluster of furniture sitting in the corner waiting to be arranged, and a ceiling chandelier dressed in a dust sheet – the morning light from the two floor to ceiling windows painting the dark skeleton inside onto the opposite wall. Althea had organised the servants – directing them with a closed fan and Penelope cradled in her arms. They'd brought chairs meant for the dining room next door and placed a splintered crate in the centre – the tea service steaming away on top of it.

"It's important you do this correctly, Cutler," Althea sighed, blowing across her teacup. "If she isn't ready, it'll be like feeding the poor girl to the wolves."

Despite being the poor girl in question, Elizabeth had decided to remain quiet. She held her cup and saucer idly whilst she listened to them talk about her as if she wasn't there at all. Althea did most of the talking, whilst Beckett leant against the window – frowning out into the square and watching the servants continue to unload the landau outside.

"Wolves," Beckett repeated, his cold eyes reflected in the glass.

"Yes – and you know how their tongues and tails like to wag when one does something one shouldn't," Althea drawled, placing her cup and saucer onto the makeshift table whilst the tea cooled. "I know, Lady Salisbury is having a ball in a couple of weeks – we shall present her then. Two weeks should be plenty of time for her to brush up on her etiquette and manners at least, and… well of course she'll need a new wardrobe, I'm quite sure everything she already has will either be too cold or – uh – _Démodé_…" she added, her eyes trawling Elizabeth's appearance from head to toe derisively.

Elizabeth blushed. "Démodé?" she asked.

"Oh dear," Althea blinked. "French lessons as well."

"Noted," Beckett muttered.

"Not to worry dear," Althea smiled, reaching for a shortbread and feeding it to Penelope. "We shall soon sort you out."

Elizabeth scoffed. "_Sorted out_?" she said.

Althea narrowed her eyes. "You're very beautiful," she said – and though it seemed like a compliment, it didn't sound like one.

"Why, thank you…" Elizabeth smiled sweetly.

"It's a bad thing, dear," Althea grumbled. "Ugly girls tend to disappear in a crowd – unnoticed… whereas pretty girls never cease to be noticed. That, dear girl is almost always their downfall."

When Elizabeth caught her fierce gaze, she almost saw her husband staring out from behind her hazel eyes. She would have liked to have taken Althea's words as advice, but because of the way she said them and the way she looked at her – they sounded far more like a warning or a threat.

"Of course, you would know – wouldn't you, mother?" Beckett interrupted – speaking to her reflection in the window.

She straightened – composing herself before she spoke. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, Cutler – you must have her sit for a portrait," she said, stroking Penelope. "Un déshabillé of course – means _undressed_, dear," she added in a whisper for Elizabeth's benefit. "…perhaps with an instrument of some kind… what do you play, Elizabeth?"

"Well," Elizabeth began.

"She doesn't," Beckett interrupted from the window.

"Oh," Althea blinked. "Well she simply _must_ learn something – you look like a harpist to me… yes, I know a wonderful–"

Elizabeth cleared her throat, then interrupted. "Actually, I play the harpsichord," she said, happily. "I don't practice nearly as often as I should, and I'm very, very rusty – but I do play."

Beckett glanced over his shoulder at her and frowned. "I didn't know you read music," he said, pleasantly surprised.

"You never asked," Elizabeth replied, quirking an eyebrow.

"_Clearly_ you should lavish more attention on your poor wife, Cutler," Althea snapped, her raised voice causing both of them to flinch. "Honestly, _just_ like your father."

Elizabeth smirked to herself when she noticed Beckett's reflection in the window. He rolled his eyes, beat his forehead against the window frame and mouthed, 'Thank God.'

* * *

**Normal smutty service shall be resumed in chapter XV - 'Paint.' More soon everyone, and thank you all for your kind reviews :-)**


	15. Paint

**Obligatory Disclaimer - Don't own, but I like to play.**

**Comments - Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter, you're all too kind.... ****vegetasfan14720****, ****Liveforthedream****, The Silent Assain, ****PrincessofTheValerious92**** (I'm so enjoying Fire & Ice, do update soon!), ****Jessi Cullen-Norrington****, ****IDoBelieveInVampires****, In AWE (thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement), ****Indie skies****, ****Chthonic Spock****/Nightmares (you do spoil me with your long reviews - thank you!), ****sleepthroughthestatic****, ****Hajnalmadar**** and ****Rock-Nye****. Sorry if I missed anyone out (my eyes are failing me, I really do need to get them checked!). So glad you all enjoyed the previous chapter, and of course Al-THAY-ah Beckett. She'll be back soon. For now though, normal service is resumed, as promised.**

**WARNINGS - Smut ahoy. As always, unabashed Beckabeth - avert thine eyes if it's not your cup of tea.**

* * *

**The Fortunate Mistress - Part XV - 'Paint'**

When he returned home, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle – misting an evening air laden with smog and swollen clouds bruised black. They'd hung in miserable clusters over the city all day – turning muddy streets into swamps, and causing chaos on the swollen river. Drifting in on the cold sea breeze along with the clouds, the smugglers came. They thrived on the confusion the murky weather presented, sneaking hundreds of caskets of illegal tea from the continent into London via Folkestone.

However the usual plan had failed for one particular gang when their coach became stuck in the thick bog near London Bridge – shifting onto its side and hurling their contraband into the peat.

They were caught by a passing watchman.

With the gang arrested and thrown in the Fleet, the Company seized what was left of the tea and immediately sold it on to make a sizeable profit. It had been an unexpected success on an otherwise uneventful day, but unfortunately the resulting paperwork had kept Lord Beckett chained to his desk for far longer than he'd intended. He could have easily passed half the flurry of sheets and articles onto someone else – but the truth was, he didn't know of nor trust anyone to do the job better than himself.

Exhausted, he made his way from the waiting carriage to the front door – caring little for the cold drizzle hitting his face as he went, nor the elderly footman who humbly accepted the cloak, hat and cane carelessly shoved at him.

"My Lord," the footman hunched into an awkward bow, carefully folding the wet cloak over his arm then closing the door.

The entrance hall was quiet and dimly lit – the dwindling glow of the sconces and ceiling chandelier blurring shadows onto the walls and up the darkened staircase. The warmth and silence of home should have eased his mind away from its daily managerial toil – transformed him miraculously from a gentleman of enterprise into simply a man of entertainment and pleasure. But to Lord Beckett the Company was one sort of business and home was another. Husband and homeowner was position of management too.

"I assume a table laden with food has been impatiently awaiting my arrival?" he asked whilst tidying his lace cuffs and the collar of his coat.

He'd suffered through the entire afternoon on only a few biscuits and several cups of legal tea, and now his stomach was empty and aching for a good meal.

The partially deaf footman faltered. "My Lord?"

Beckett groaned. "_Dinner_, Edwards," he replied loudly, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"Dinner, my Lord?" Edwards stuttered, his chin wobbling. "_Oh my_ – b-b-but, I'm afraid dinner has b-b-been delayed…"

Beckett glared. "What?" he demanded wearily.

"Apologies my Lord, b-b-but Lady B-B-Beckett said that it should," he replied. "…only, uh, Mister Hudson was quite insistent that he complete his preliminary sketches b-b-before the day was out."

"Hudson, the painter? You mean to tell me he's _still_ here?" Beckett frowned.

"Why yes, my Lord," Edwards nodded with his entire upper body, stooped over and rigid. "Her ladyship's b-b-been sitting for him all afternoon."

Beckett's irritated gaze lifted smoothly to the top of the staircase. "Well, I think it's about time he left don't you?" he whispered.

"My Lord?" Edwards blinked – mishearing yet again.

"I don't have time for this," Beckett sighed before raising his voice. "_I said_, I think it's about time that he was on his way," he repeated. "Fetch Mister Hudson his hat and a Hackney carriage."

"Ah! Yes – _yes_, my Lord," Edwards said.

"…we got there eventually," Beckett muttered sarcastically as the footman bowed then limped through a side door.

When the door shut and the entrance hall plunged once again into silence, Beckett took the stairs forcefully – a firm hand on the banister as he leapt the first two, then hurried carefully up the rest. He found the second floor in darkness – a barren black hue shading the walls and floor, broken only by a puddle of light spilling through the landing window onto the floor.

Along the corridor, beyond the locked doors to his private study, and past the drawing room was Elizabeth's bedchamber – a crease of light from beneath the doors shining a yellow line onto the opposing wall.

He approached the doors, but when he heard Elizabeth's voice – muffled slightly by the sound of the rain patting the roof – he paused.

"Look, just tell me what you want me to do with it," she complained.

"Whatever her Ladyship feels to be natural," a male voice replied.

"I don't _know_ what feels natural, Mister Hudson… _You're_ the bloody artist!" she snapped "But I personally don't tend to _naturally_ lie around on furniture like this."

"Now, now – what did I say about frowning? Why don't you try raising it to your lips," he suggested.

"Oh for God's sake… Do you mean, like this?"

"Lovely… yes, that's it – no wait… perhaps, uh… rest your cheek on it – ah! Yes! Perfect!" Hudson cheered. "Now… don't move."

Beckett grasped the gilded handles and wrenched the doors apart – striding into the bedchamber, cold eyes roaming.

Around him, the entire bedchamber was cluttered with art equipment. Canvases in various stages of development leant against cabinets and cupboards, and lay piled on top of Elizabeth's writing desk. Pastoral backdrops hung over the backs of chairs and on top of tables, whilst small paint pots gathered together in multihued clusters on the wooden floor.

He found Elizabeth sprawled across the chaise long at the foot of her bed, wrapped in a blue taffeta dressing gown and resting her cheek on curled knuckles – like a bored deity. The crimped silk wrapped her loosely – tapering below her breasts where she scrunched the material together between her fingers. Her bare skin shone like satin – cheeks rouged the colour of carnations.

She looked up excitedly when he burst in – raising her dark eyebrows and offering him a quick smile. One of her cheeks was red, a small rash appearing where she'd been leaning.

He visually consumed her in silence – his tepid, emotionless gaze making sure his desire for her remained hidden.

She looked away – dejected. "You're late," she drawled – returning to her pose.

James Hudson – the painter Beckett had spent nearly a fortune on only to bring chaos to his wife's bedroom – stood a few feet away, sweeping charcoal onto a cream canvas.

"Ah – Lord Beckett," he nodded over his shoulder. "But we were wondering whether you were ever going to turn up!" he chuckled, his long grey periwig bouncing on his shoulders.

Elizabeth frowned. "Yes, where exactly _have_ you been?" she asked. "…not that I'm at all concerned with your whereabouts, of course…"

Beckett glared at her.

He'd began to notice that conversation with his wife was becoming riddled with emotional contradictions – clear statements, followed by clumsy retractions.

When her eyes sunk evasively to the floor, he smirked. "Of course not…" he said. "But as I'm far too weary to explain my lateness, let's just blame the weather, shall we?"

She seemed to ignore his answer, instead absorbed in checking her fingernails.

"Ah yes! Bloody awful as usual, I'd say!" Hudson interrupted. "Actually, that reminds me… uh, would it be terribly inconvenient of me to leave my equipment and sketches here overnight? Only, I'm afraid they'll be ruined in the unfortunate weather – I'd have to start all over again! And that would be terribly inconvenient wouldn't it?" he said.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it would," he replied.

"Excellent!" Hudson grinned, returning to the sketch in front of him and blending a smooth line with his already blackened fingertips. "So, it shall all remain here overnight – as long as, of course, it isn't interfered with…"

Elizabeth smiled. "You've no need to worry about that Mister Hudson, I can assure you that neither I, nor Lord Beckett possess even an ounce of artistic ability," she teased playfully. "So I'm sure everything will be safe."

Her smile faded when her eyes sought out her husband's. She found them penetrative, studying her deeply.

"Are you intending on leaving any time soon, Mister Hudson?" Beckett asked, approaching the artist from behind and finally observing the portrait in progress.

Hudson sighed dramatically. "In a mere moment your Lordship… a few more strokes and I shall be done for the day."

When his mother had suggested that Elizabeth should sit for a portrait, he'd agreed, simply because it had been his intention anyway. He'd hired the best portrait painter money could buy to flaunt his most prized possession, and to immortalise Elizabeth as Lady Beckett. As _his_.

Currently however, this magnificent portrait he'd been promised was an utter disappointment. No colour, just smudged black lines.

Beckett's gaze hardened. "Where's the paint, where's the colour?" he barked.

Hudson tutted and shook his head. "Over there in a box, waiting its turn. You cannot hurry art, sir – it takes time," he said.

"How _much_ time?" Beckett replied impatiently.

"However long it requires," Hudson replied. "Art is something that simply cannot be forced. You must… tease it _gently_ into being."

Bewildered into silence, Beckett mentally took a step back and watched whilst Hudson carefully traced Elizabeth's silhouette onto the canvas. The figure developed slowly – grey lines became limbs, toes and soft curves – whilst smeared charcoal became shadows, and the texture of her dressing gown.

He'd never understood art, nor had the time to study it – but he found observing its process strangely arousing. More so, when he lifted his eyes over the canvas and found the subject admiring him – observing him quietly with brown eyes veiled by heavy black lashes. Like a portrait, her brown eyes held his gaze – following it as it drifted down to her lips, across her breasts, then back again.

There was something between agony and anxiety in her eyes when he reached them. An expression of thoughts being carefully chewed.

"…and… that, as they say, is that – finished," Hudson announced, his loud voice echoing through the quiet room. "…for tonight, at least."

Whilst Hudson washed his hands, tidied the equipment and threw a sheet over his masterpiece, Beckett strolled to the fireplace on the other side of the bedchamber, where he picked up an iron poker and stoked the fire.

"Back tomorrow then?" Hudson asked before he left. "Good evening, Lord Beckett… Lady Beckett."

When Beckett didn't respond, Elizabeth replied. "Yes, thank you, Mister Hudson, goodnight," she said.

When the bedchamber door finally closed – the painter's footsteps fading down the hall – Beckett turned and steadily walked back to the chaise long where Elizabeth was still sitting.

She smiled sweetly when he joined her. "You're not going to be too awkward about him staying late, are you?" she asked, removing the pins from her hair and unravelling the blonde curls over her shoulders. "…only I thought it best that he get all the sketches over and done with in one day."

"…no," Beckett replied distractedly, noticing Hudson's box of paints sitting on the floor beside the chaise long.

"I'd absolutely love a cup of tea – I've been sitting in the same position, half naked on this bloody couch all afternoon," she laughed. "My hands are _freezing_…"

"Are they…?" he muttered, spotting a small jar with red paint oozing down one side.

"Yes…" Elizabeth sighed and rubbed her hands together. "Have you eaten? You must be starving – I'll tell Edwards to hurry dinner, shall I?" she asked, abruptly standing up then heading for the door.

Beckett narrowed his eyes as she passed him. He found her matrimonial act very charming, but clearly an act none the less.

"Elizabeth," he called after her.

She stopped and slowly turned to face him. "Yes?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, merely pointed a finger at the floor in front of him – silently demanding she come back.

She obeyed – holding her dressing gown tightly together as she walked back, stopping precisely where he'd told her to.

Her eyes widened. "What?"

Holding her gaze, he reached out and removed the hand clutching the lace lapels of her dressing gown – loosening her cold knuckles and teasing the silk from her grasp. The heavy waves of fabric fell apart – revealing a long sliver of naked flesh.

Elizabeth shivered – sucked on her lower lip.

He didn't wait nor falter, immediately peeling the gown from her shoulders and letting it slip to the floor in a rumpled heap. "I tend to disagree, you know," he whispered smoothly – grey eyes flitting across her bare torso.

Elizabeth's narrowed. "Disagree? With what exactly?" she asked, cool air licking her body.

"That I am entirely without artistic ability," Beckett replied – warm fingers ghosting up her arms and watching their rootless path.

"Oh," she smiled.

The tentative touch over her upper arm unexpectedly became firm when he grabbed it and walked her to the empty wall beside her bed. He shoved her against it – bare breasts pressing into the damask, hands splayed either side.

Approaching her slowly, he brushed his hand across her shoulder blades and stroked her like a foal – tracing her spine, thumbing each vertebrae – until tamed, she fell limp against the wall.

"I think artistic ability rather depends on one's definition of art," he whispered in her ear, gathering the hair away from the nape of her neck and throwing it over her shoulder. "…don't you agree?"

Her reply was an uneven breath, stifled when he pressed his mouth to her bare shoulder – inhaling her scent of her skin, remnants of lavender powder and rosewater. He kissed a slow path to the nape of her neck – smirking, when he heard the dry click in her throat when she swallowed.

"I suppose," she replied, voice strained.

He found the ease of her seduction amusing – so different from the obstinate virgin he'd married half a year ago in haste aboard the Endeavour. He'd slowly broken her, moulded her into a receptive and submissive lover – and though he often missed the petulant outbursts and the challenge of resistance, the way she melted beneath his fingertips like wax these days, was irresistible.

His fingers reached beneath her arms and sought her breasts – grazed over the puckered tips before they drifted down to her navel, embracing her from behind.

When he rubbed the taut flesh across her stomach and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, Elizabeth opened her eyes and frowned.

Her shoulders rose as she took a breath. "Beckett?"

"Mm hm?" he mumbled against her neck.

"I need to tal…" she stuttered, cut off when his hands and lips slipped from her. She glanced over her shoulder – blindly searching for him. "Beckett?"

He stepped back and admired her for a moment – perfectly vulnerable, utterly exposed. "Don't move, sweet," he warned.

His boots sounded on the herringbone floor as he walked away, and when he stopped, she heard him moving things – clunking equipment and glass.

He picked up a long wooden paintbrush and a jar of red paint, then carried them back with him.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked, frowning as she heard the popping sound of a lid being removed from something.

He coated the tip of the brush in red paint, then stepped up to his canvas. "Gently teasing art into being," he drawled.

She smelt the paint before it touched her, but still shuddered when the wet brush licked the base of her neck.

"Ah!" she gasped, arching away from it.

"Stay still," Beckett hissed – sweeping his signature across her shoulders, and filling the soft spinal crease with a long line of red paint.

The colour satisfied him – vibrant and glossy against her pale skin. Deep slashes of red, lacing her back like the ribbons of a corset. Imitation caress from a whip.

She trembled beneath the brush, finding the sensation of paint drying to her skin strange at first. But gradually she grew used to the damp bristles, and became aroused by their touch – sinking further with each flick and flourish. The sensation so similar to the tip of a tongue sliding and swirling across warm flesh.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the wall as he continued to paint – her hot breath soaking the damask, fingernails scraping the silk stitching. With every pore smothered in paint, the more restless she became for release – tight and wet.

When he heard whimper at the feel of the paintbrush when he stroked it across the back of her thighs, he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

She looked at him – eyes pleading, breasts undulating, the evidence of her arousal clear – its scent mingling with the paint.

He grinned, took a small step towards her, then lifted the brush.

She watched him as he painted her torso, sweeping the brush across her collar and down her arms – painting her knuckles and the tips of her fingers. He painted her breasts, dragging a stuttery laugh and shudder from her as the wet paint coated them.

Surprised by her reaction to the paint, and urged on by his own desire – his final stroke was a long, even red line beginning beneath her chin and ending amongst the swollen flesh between her thighs.

She sucked in a breath and snatched the paintbrush from him. "I've had enough of sodding art for one day," she rasped, throwing it on the floor.

She fell against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and smearing red paint across his neck and into his wig – imprinting a red torso onto his satin waistcoat.

Her lips smothered any complaints he had – the jar of paint falling to the floor with a thud, splashing across his boots as he grabbed her sticky waist and led her to the bed.

He pushed her and she fell across it – legs dangling over the edge, red paint flowering on white sheets beneath her. She watched him impatiently, addictively as he threw his ruined coat onto the floor and fiddled with the front of his breeches – dragging a strand of hair from her eyes and unknowingly rubbing a red trail across her forehead. Cupping the soft flesh behind her knees, he hooked her legs around his waist then slid into her – penetrating her completely with one deep thrust.

He rode her firmly – forceful, deep thrusts that shoved her up the bed, his blood fired by the way she writhed and twisted in the sheets – marking them with the paint on her body.

She came when she rolled him beneath her – breathless, hips crashing, his hands holding her. He came when he took her from behind – eyeing the patterns of red paint swirling down her spine.

Fog of passion over, he lay sated in amongst his art – watching when Elizabeth slipped out of the bed, tip-toed across the room and sat naked at her vanity.

He watched her brush clumps of red paint out of her hair and leaned up on his elbows. "Before…" he said. "There was something you were going to say, something you wanted to talk about."

Elizabeth caught his confused gaze in the mirror. "Oh," she sighed. "It doesn't matter, it's nothing."

* * *

**More soon.**


	16. Music

**Obligatory Disclaimer - Don't own, but I like to play.**

**Comments - Whoa, I'm updating! It's been a while, and after work, computer viruses (not fun) and various other rl complications, I finally got there. Thanks to everyone for reviewing the previous chapter and being patient whilst waiting for this one to eventually crawl out of the woodwork! I don't know how to explain this chapter - more plot I suppose, a bit of smut and fluff? (shock horreur!) And Althea ;) Enjoy!**

**WARNINGS - Smut ahoy. As always, unabashed Beckabeth - avert thine eyes if it's not your cup of tea.**

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**The Fortunate Mistress - Part XVI - 'Music'**

**-:~:-**

'_There's nothing remarkable about it. All one has to do is hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument plays itself.'_

_- Johann Sebastian Bach_

**-:~:-**

She was grateful for the arrival of dusk – wiping away London's grubby pasting of grey clouds to reveal a sky flushed the colour of ripe peach. She looked forward to it every day. The arrival of night meant that another afternoon spent studying in the Parlour was over with. Harsh daylight was replaced with soft candlelight, tea with wine, satin gowns with cotton bed sheets, and solitude with company – should her husband be in the mood to offer it.

When the colour of the light coming in through the windows began to weaken, Elizabeth was fast asleep, curled in the mossy green easy chair beside the fireplace – the Evening Post left open on her lap. The small table beside her was cluttered with French novels and manuals on popular dance, and sitting on a plate in the shadow of this small literary tower was her uneaten lunch – broiled pigeon and potatoes, still warm and soggy from the heat of the fire.

* * *

For two weeks she'd been hidden away like a new pearl necklace: paid for and polished, and waiting to leave the jewellery box for the first time – ready to coil around her husband's arm and titivate him much the same as diamonds around a lady's neck or stripes on an officers coat. Self-proclaimed mistress of this polishing process was Lord Beckett's mother, Althea, who invited herself – long with her lapdog Penelope – around every afternoon in an effort to cleanse Elizabeth of any of the lingering grime of piracy, and to re-educate her in the art of the socialite. She attacked her with French phrases and fashionable expressions, confused her with complex dance steps, and filled her head with a menagerie of Duchesses, Earls and Courtesans – including the correct way of addressing each and every one of them.

But despite her determination, Althea wasn't the greatest of tutors.

She seemed to forget that two years spent pirating weren't nearly enough to erase her daughter in-law's rigid upbringing. The truth was that Captain Swann of the fourth Brethren Court had been the most well spoken and well-mannered Pirate King that the Brethren had ever seen – even practicing deportment whilst wielding her cutlass.

"Now then my petite protégée, show me the Rigaudon again – your footwork was sloppy that last time," Althea drawled. "Elizabeth, do you know, for someone who claims to be an accomplished harpsichordist your tempo is terribly off."

They'd spent an afternoon mastering dance – or attempting to manage it at the very least. Despite feeling unwell, Elizabeth had twirled and tiptoed her way between minuets and gavottes whilst Althea spread herself like jam across the chaise longue, popping orange segments between her rouged red lips whilst Penelope slept on her stomach. It might have been easier had there been music, instead Elizabeth had to make do with Althea's clumsy clapping.

Feeling her head spin, she paused. "I never claimed to be accomplished, Althea," she panted.

"Al-_thay_-ah, darling," Althea yawned.

"I told you, I haven't played in a very long time."

"…It's very cold in here, you know – you should call someone to light the fire – poor Penelope is shivering," she complained.

Elizabeth glanced at the soot-faced pug, sleeping peacefully amongst the poppy coloured ruching of Althea's gown. She pressed a hand to her clammy forehead and caught sweaty tendrils of blonde hair between her fingertips.

"How can you possibly be feeling cold?" she asked, breathlessly whipping out her fan and fluttering it quickly. "I'm burning up."

Althea narrowed her eyes. "You're holding that fan wrong," she said. "Keep your elbow out and fan _vertically_ dear, _vertically_ – not horizontally."

Elizabeth groaned. "Oh god, I've got to sit down – just for a minute."

Althea scoffed as she watched her fall into a nearby easy chair. "Elizabeth! Look at you! You're glistening like glazed pork! Are you ill?" she laughed.

Elizabeth sighed loudly. "No…"

She paused, anxiously stroking the wooden spines of her silk fan. She knew that although Althea's teaching methods were demanding, they weren't entirely to blame for her exhaustion.

"No, no – not ill, just very tired," she added.

"Well good," Althea said – preoccupied with massaging Penelope's ears.

Elizabeth hesitated before she spoke. "Listen Althea," she began, ignoring her mother in-law's deep groan at the way she pronounced her name. "It's not that I'm ungrateful for all your help – only…" she paused.

"Only what..?" Althea blinked.

"…only, is this all really that necessary?"

Althea shifted and glanced over her shoulder. "Necessary, darling?"

Elizabeth replied quickly – desperate to eject what she meant to say before her head told her to remain quiet. "Yes – only I'm not a debutante, I've been out in society since I was seventeen, and…"

Althea laughed – a derisive chuckle. "Oh! But darling," she purred. "You can hardly call Port Royal a 'society!' It's positively provincial!"

"Yes, well, regardless, I think I'm well enough equipped to survive Saturday evening," Elizabeth continued tentatively. "…and, well, as for the French and that Riggerdoon dance…"

"_Rigaudon_," Althea interrupted tiredly.

"I'm sure I can educate myself – without collapsing in the process – by reading a couple of good books," she suggested innocently.

Althea lifted Penelope from her stomach and sat up rigidly, lifting her chin and pushing her breasts up and out. "Books?" she replied disdainfully – fury simmering in her hazel eyes.

The following afternoon a book arrived in Althea's place, a brief and disparaging note tucked beneath the leather cover:

'_Daughter in-law. This is the only book you need concern yourself with. Do enjoy your solitude – regards, D. Lady Althea Beckett.'_

Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she opened the book and read the title page. 'The Polite Lady's Pocket Book: a miscellany of manners and etiquette for the social Lady.' Beneath the printed title was a block of delicate handwritten calligraphy – the black ink faded and blotched. There was a name, a date and a personal dedication.

'_For Thea, with intense pride and hopes on your wedding day – Mama, June 1705.'_

Overcome with a mixture of anger and guilt, Elizabeth locked the book away – burying it in the unused bottom drawer of her writing desk and stubbornly warning herself never to read it. It hadn't been the prickly note that had irritated her, no, instead it had been the book itself, the dedication inside and what the gesture had implied.

Although the reunion with her privacy had been a happy one to begin with, Elizabeth soon found – as always – that the novelty soon wore off. In the few days that followed, crawling slowly towards Saturday evening, she spent tedious afternoons holed up in the Parlour – reading near the fireplace. Books on French and about dance were brought down from the library, and she read about London society in the Evening Post – brought on a tray along with her lunch by Edwards. She picked at the food, and left a near-full plate every day, preferring to fill her stomach with wine and tea instead – her appetite not what it usually was.

She didn't see much of her husband, he left early every morning and sometimes didn't return until late at night. And although she waited every night for him, he left her in peace – the doors to her bedchamber remaining firmly shut. She assumed that piles of paperwork were holding him hostage at the East India House – she'd read something in the paper about war in India affecting trade, and after all, they'd only arrived in England a few weeks ago, their new life was far from settled and she assumed that business was much the same.

Mercer was around during the day, rushing back and forth between the house and the Company offices, and running clandestine errands around the city. Every time she saw his dark silhouette sweep past the parlour doors, she held back the urge to stop him and ask about Lord Beckett.

* * *

The lamplighters were making their way around the square when Lord Beckett's bureaucratic black carriage pulled up outside the house, its heavy iron wheels grinding the cobbles. The sound woke Elizabeth, and when she opened her eyes she found the walls of the parlour greying with shadows. Beside her the fire was dying out – the charred logs smouldering with embers as they struggled to stay alight.

Wearily, she blinked at the gild clock on the mantel. What time was it? Surely she hadn't slept through the evening as well as the afternoon? Or, could it be that her husband was returning home unusually early today? When she noticed that the black hands of the clock were lost somewhere between four and five, she realised that it must be the latter. But why, she wondered.

With a yawn, she snatched the mess of rumpled broadsheets from her lap and stood up – folding them quickly and dropping them onto the chair. The lingering stench of her uneaten lunch churned her stomach as she crossed the room and peered through one of the tall windows facing out onto the square.

Pressing her fingers to the glass, she spotted her husband's carriage parked outside, the familiar gold Company crest gleaming in the fading daylight. But behind the carriage – accompanying it – was a plain looking dairy cart, weighed down by a large and suspicious looking rectangular crate – the same East India Trading Company crest painted in red on its side.

Elizabeth frowned. "What on earth is it this time?" she muttered, her breath fogging the glass. When she thought of all the possibilities of what the crate might contain – none of them were innocent. In fact, chained and half naked slaves from the Indies with limbs thin and weak from travel, was her first thought.

The carriage door swung open and Lord Beckett stepped out onto the cobbles, cane in hand. He hovered momentarily whilst the driver settled the horses, glancing at a small pocket watch before his cold, dissecting gaze lifted to the house.

Elizabeth pulled away from the window. Somewhere in the house a bell rang and was followed by the sound of several footmen running past the parlour – a thumping crescendo of heels on marble as they rushed to meet the carriage. She heard the front door open, and when a sudden draft swirled around her ankles she shuddered and tied her dressing gown. Muffled voices and noises from outside penetrated the window.

"My Lord – we weren't informed of your arrival," one of the footmen panted – the quick sprint from the kitchen leaving him out of breath. "If we'd known you were to return early today we would have–"

"I'm not interested in listening to your clumsy concerto of incompetence," Beckett interrupted, and although the glass smothered and distorted the voices of others, his own familiar soulless drawl cut through it clearly.

"Ah, forgive me sir, I just–"

"Where is my wife?" Beckett asked.

Elizabeth edged closer to the glass. She peeped around the window frame – hesitantly curious, brown eyes wide like a cat. They stood near the doorstep with their backs turned – watching the other footmen take the hefty crate down from the dairy cart.

The footman turned his head. "Lady Beckett? In the parlour I'd imagine… has been all day so I hear – Edwards mentioned that she's been unwell."

He ignored the additional information – he'd asked about Elizabeth's whereabouts, not her condition. "The parlour… then the crate needs to be taken there," Beckett said, removing his hat and handing it footman. "And carefully. Do you understand? The contents of that crate are both delicate and absurdly expensive…"

He accepted the hat, pressing it lightly to his chest. "Yes, of course my Lord… I–"

"If I find it damaged, I won't hold _them_ responsible," Beckett said as he lifted the foot of his cane and motioned to the other footmen struggling with the crate. "I'll hold _you_ responsible. Is that clear?"

The footman straightened. "Crystal, sir."

They were handling the crate as if it contained a wild animal. They wrestled with it, labouring over its size and weight, wavering – tilting and turning it several times before finally lifting it from the cart.

Beckett watched the footman as he anxiously eyed the crate. "Are you married?"

The footman blinked. "Married? Yes my Lord, near three years this May," he said, nodding.

"Is she beautiful?" Beckett asked.

"An angel, truly my Lord," he replied, smiling.

"Good," Beckett said. "Because, I can assure you, the cost of replacing the item inside that crate – should it indeed be broken – will certainly require a second income."

The curl on lips seemed to suggest he was joking – although it would have definitely been described as a dark and sordid sort of humour, but his eyes were like steel – hard and grey.

Satisfied with the footman's wide eyes and strange expression of both despair and disgust, Lord Beckett turned and quickly scaled the stone steps leading up to the front door. Once he'd vanished inside, the footman frantically rejoined his colleagues as shuffled the crate towards the house.

"For fucks sake, be careful with it!" he hissed beneath his breath.

When Elizabeth heard the door open and once again felt the early cold night air kiss her ankles, she rushed away from the window and stumbled to her chair by the fireplace. She unravelled the mess of pages from the Evening Post and pretended bury her attention in the long article about Lady Caroline Kelly tumbling off her horse at Ranleigh Gardens and flashing her bits to a very elderly and bemused Earl of Scarborough. Though it had made for an amusing read earlier – including the hilariously graphic engraving which went along with it – Elizabeth stared through the blocks of heavy black text, instead continuing to wonder what might be inside the mysterious wooden crate and what it had to do with her.

She wore the pages like a veil when he entered the parlour – the door groaning on its hinges as it opened, and his lacquered boots a steady, hollow thump as he approached. He stopped a few feet from her and waited in silence. She pretended a few more long seconds of unawareness then lowered the newspaper. She could feel his impatience mounting just the same as how the atmosphere thickens uncomfortably before a storm.

As she lifted her gaze from the page, she was suddenly reminded of the fact that she hadn't seen him in over a week, and when her eyes settled on him, her stomach clenched with a strange habitual longing. She was tied to him by more than marriage now, whether she liked it or not. It swelled inside her. But she was frightened, and intent of masking that secret desire with casual sarcasm – for now at least.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, it's you," she drawled. "Remind me, who are you?"

He almost smirked. "Gaoler, Lord, husband, lover…" he suggested flatly. "The choice, sweet – rather depends on how you'd prefer to be treated."

Elizabeth avoided his heavy gaze, turning instead to the side table towering with books. "Lord today, I think," she lied, pouting as she pretended to rearrange them – swapping and stacking with fumbling fingers. "I've been rehearsing the role of Lady Beckett all week, it wouldn't be fair to change my part now – so close to the performance – and put all that studying to waste."

When her stomach suddenly groaned, and bile swelled at the back of her throat, it took all her inner strength not to clasp her hand across her mouth or to clutch her abdomen. She swallowed hard, and quickly composed herself.

"Could you please call Edwards to take that plate away? It's been sitting out all day and – well, he knows I won't eat pigeon… the smell of it, please – it's awful," she frowned.

He didn't question her, calling immediately into the hallway for someone to come and collect the uneaten dinner. But when he turned to her, his gaze was suspicious. "I'm told you've been unwell," he said, watching her closely.

For the first time he noticed how her skin – usually pearl-like – had lost its healthy rose glow. Instead it looked chalky, with sickly shadows beneath her eyes.

"A little. A touch of the vapours perhaps, but nothing serious – not really," she said, shrugging. "I'm just tired, that's all – but thank you for your concern."

Beckett scoffed. "My concern, sweet, is that we can't have you unwell for Lady Salisbury's Ball on Saturday evening," he replied. "They're expecting us there, and I need you at your most pleasing. Sweet and submissive – _not_ constantly rushing onto the veranda to rearrange the contents of your stomach. Perhaps we should send for the doctor."

Elizabeth was quick to disagree, shaking her head and brushing the mess of curled blonde hair out of her eyes. "No don't! Please, there's no need to send for him – it's nothing, I promise," she protested, as clearly and offhandedly as she could – but instead it seemed to come out in a hectic and stuttery jumble. "I'm _fine_," she added with a firm nod.

Despite his infatuation with the female body, especially Elizabeth's – for its pleasing appearance clothed or unclothed, for the feel of it beneath his fingertips and its warmth when wrapped around him – he didn't pretend to understand its inner most workings. If she claimed to be well, then he wouldn't argue with her – he didn't have the patience. It probably wasn't anything important, and even if it was, she wouldn't tell him anyway.

Elizabeth decided to change the subject. "You've been busy," she said, watching as he strolled to the window. "Dare I ask why?" she asked, thinking of the mysterious crate.

"Bit of trouble with the French in Bengal," he replied impassively. "Their influence at the Nawab's Court is affecting British Trade. Disagreements, delays, blockades… of course, the whole debacle isn't helping our trade interests in France much either."

"Yes, I did read something in the newspaper," Elizabeth said, grabbing the broadsheets from the side table and flicking through them again.

Beckett glanced over his shoulder. His eyes simmered with excitement. "There might be a war," he replied.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "With France? The old rival…how typical. Do you know, I think the only reason we learn French here in England is so we can coherently bicker with Paris and correctly insult one another every time there's a war," she said – watching Beckett's small, amused smirk reflected in the glass.

They remained in silence when the parlour doors swung open and a flurry of servants and footmen entered in waves. The first moved quietly around the room as they lit the scattered candelabra, and brought down the large ceiling chandelier – their eyes down, avoiding Lord and Lady Beckett as if they were part of the elaborate and expensive furniture. Elizabeth was relieved when Edwards finally appeared, staggering in and out of the room and taking the uneaten broiled pigeon with him. The footmen followed soon after, shambling in with the crate – straining and groaning with its weight as they carried it to the centre of the room. They hovered as they waited for Lord Beckett to direct them, pain etched across their red faces.

The footman from outside appeared with an iron crowbar. "My Lord?"

Beckett turned from the window. "Ah yes… over here by the window," he said, motioning vaguely at the empty floor space near where he stood.

Elizabeth stood and watched as they moved the crate, placing it in the mixed and hazy pool of streetlight from the window and candlelight from the ceiling. The footman attacked it with the crowbar, the wood creaking and splintering until the four sides split and in turn fell away to reveal an exquisite, golden harpsichord. They peeled away the wooden packaging slowly and carefully – piling it on the floor like discarded clothes before a romantic encounter – until it stood alone, elegant and glowing gloriously – the colour of evening sunlight. The panels were painted with roses and chubby, pink faced cherubim.

As the footmen cleared from the parlour, Elizabeth eyed it silently – her lips hung open, awed and dazzled by it. When they were finally alone, Lord Beckett spoke.

"You said that you played," he said, approaching the instrument and delicately raising and hitching the lid to reveal the brass strings and vivid pastoral scene painted on the underside. "I thought perhaps you might like to retune your talent." He plucked a string and the sound fluttered around the room.

Elizabeth blinked at him. "You mean, it's for me? A gift?" she asked, taken aback.

If it was intended as a gift, Beckett's expression betrayed no sentiment – his masked it well behind passive, nonchalant eyes. "It's in the Flemish style, outrageously expensive. Designed and built especially for the King of Sweden's mistress, but there was some outstanding payment and it was seized at the Company's office in Antwerp," he said, watching as she hesitantly approached. "Seemed a shame to let it waste away in the cellar of the East India House."

She smiled as she lightly stroked the ivory keyboard – amused by his attempt to belittle the gesture. "I hardly know what to say," she whispered. "Thank you… it's beautiful."

Lord Beckett leant against the window sill and watched as she consumed the harpsichord with her fingers – caressing it addictively – feeling the texture of the wood and the strokes of paint and varnish, unable to wholly appreciate it with just her eyes.

"Play something," he suggested flatly.

Elizabeth glanced up at him and snatched her hand away from the casing of the harpsichord – her reverie abruptly broken by his voice. "I couldn't," she refused. "It's been such a long time – I wouldn't know what to play, I don't think I can remem–"

He glared at her. "Play something," he repeated, firmer this time – the previous suggestion turning into a demand. "I want to hear you play."

Reluctantly, Elizabeth sat herself in front of the keyboard, sweeping the tail of her dressing gown from beneath her and spreading her lean fingers across the black and white keys. Though she'd said that she wouldn't know what to play, she immediately thought of the last minuet she'd been learning and practicing before her old instrument had broken and been taken away a few years back. She doubted that she'd even remember it without a single page of manuscript, but out of nowhere she remembered the first few notes, then the next and the next – until her fingers flew across the keys of their own volition, like magic and without a thought. She amazed herself and smiled having forgotten how good and relaxing it felt to play.

Beckett was impressed. Truthfully, he hadn't entirely believed her when she mentioned that she played. It had been an easy declaration to make, and he decided that she was most likely only an amateur: able to read music, but barely able to play. She surprised him with her grace and natural skill, and he stood quietly beside the harpsichord half stunned, mesmerised by the way her fingers scuttled rapidly across the keys, and enjoying the way her brow puckered with impassioned concentration. She made mistakes – accidental slips between keys and slight hesitations – but they were forgivable; small, likeable flaws in what was otherwise a breathtaking portrait.

He felt a sudden surge of pride that such talent belonged to his wife, and that she in turn belonged to him. There was a deep desire lurking there too, a desire to feel her fingertips across his skin – to be played.

As she played into the coda, he strolled behind and watched over her shoulder. Her knowledge of his presence as he gripped the back of the chair with one hand manifested itself in an uneven trill and palm-sweat across the keys. When he softly cupped the nape of her neck and noticed her falter again, he smirked to himself. The skin there was clammy and feverish, with wispy strands of blonde hair sticking in curls to it and it couldn't tell whether it was because of her fever or because of him. He twirled the hair around his fingertips as she continued to play, her shoulder blades shaking and rising.

His touch was distracting and increased her mistakes, but she relished it – her scalp prickled and a sharp flush spread across her skin. She'd missed it, being left alone didn't suit her anymore and she craved intimacy – and when his hand slipped down across her collar bone and into the warm bodice of her nightgown she paused and lifted her fingers from the keys.

He bent down and brushed his lips across her ear, and the musky scent of his skin clouded her mind. "Finish it," he whispered, and planted a kiss on her pulse.

Without a word he fingers dropped flat onto the keys, and unable to pick up from where she left off, she returned to beginning of the coda – slowly and distractedly whilst he kissed her neck and thumbed her breast. In her present condition, they were both tender, heavy and sore to the touch – but she bit her lip and tolerated the trifling pain with the promise of pleasure beginning to pool between her thighs. She grinned, would he have her here in the parlour when she finished playing? Sprawled across the stool, with sporadic, accidental chords from the harpsichord sounding as they fucked? Would she straddle him in one of the easy chairs – half dressed, curls bouncing? Or on the Chinese rug by the fire perhaps? Sweaty and slow. She'd been starving for him in his absence and couldn't wait – and just maybe, once it was all over, whilst the scent of her sweat still clung to his skin and hung thick in the air – she'd tell him her secret.

As her mind raced excitedly through the possibilities awaiting her, somehow her fingers did too – hurrying blindly towards the end of the piece as he smeared his lips across the hollow of her neck.

Finally, she finished the piece – and as the final notes echoed and with the strings still buzzing in the case, she turned her head and kissed him. But it was painfully abrupt – and as she squirmed towards him like a flower reaching up for sun, he pulled away and took a step back.

He licked his lips, savouring her taste as he eyed her awkwardly. "Well, I'm not sure that was how Bach intended it to be played – but it was pleasing enough," he muttered – his voice hoarse.

Elizabeth smirked at him. "I've missed it," she said, her face pink and glistening, brown eyes delirious.

Beckett looked away. "Yes. I must go – but please, continue," he stuttered, gesturing erratically to the harpsichord. "I do love to hear music played."

Elizabeth blinked at him, bemused. "Oh, but…" she muttered.

She watched him turn away and cross the room, boots sounding loudly on the hardwood as he approached the parlour doors. As he reached for the handles, she bit down on her pride and the words sprung from her mouth before she could stop them.

"Will I see you tonight?" she asked hesitantly.

His hand stilled. "You have a fever," he said softly, his back turned. "…and uh, I have some bus – ah – a small matter which needs attending to…"

Elizabeth nodded and slipped her hands into her lap. "No then," she replied, smiling ruefully.

A long pause followed, so quiet that footsteps could be heard upstairs and the sound of the cook shouting in the kitchen, then finally Lord Beckett turned the door handle and opened the door.

"Cutler – ah, Lord Beckett?" Elizabeth called after him. "I think I may have offended your mother," she said. "I said something to her and it was rude and…"

Beckett glanced over his shoulder, and his cold eyes held the hint of a smile. "I'm sure it wasn't anything she didn't deserve to hear," he said, before stepping into the hall and closing the parlour door behind him.

Elizabeth grinned to herself for a moment, then swivelled in her seat and returned her fingers and attention to the harpsichord.

* * *

**More soon - stay tuned for part XVII, 'Costume.'**

* * *


	17. Painting

******The Fortunate Mistress - Part XVII - 'Painting'**  


Hudson delivers the masterpiece himself – remnants of its tireless manufacture crusting beneath his fingernails as he proudly accepts coin, then withdraws. The dust sheet is impatiently stripped away to reveal milk flesh and primrose hair.

"How awful!" Althea complains, but Elizabeth detects envy in the critic's eye. "Get rid of it Cutler, she'll have to sit for another! Less femme légère!"

The following morning Elizabeth watches dejectedly as the portrait leaves with her husband. He brands it 'distasteful,' and she fears Hudson will soon be wearing it around his neck.

Later – alone at work and replete with cognac – Beckett admires his new art acquisition.

* * *

_This drabble was hiding on my computer, among other things..._


	18. Costume

******The Fortunate Mistress - Part XVIII - 'Costume'**

******~:~**

As suspected, nothing could keep Althea away from her purpose for too long, not even a rather grisly carriage collision and traffic jam in Piccadilly.

Elizabeth often wondered what longed for resolution drove the woman. Elizabeth had never really known what it was like to have a mother – all she had were a few watery memories, nothing clear – and therefore she was unsure of the breed's mechanics. Was it the welfare of her son that Althea cared so much for? Embarking on a mission to weld him a wife of womanly perfection. Or was it something else? Some distant need finally met? Lord Beckett had no siblings (which spoke volumes for his demanding and self-centred nature…), and just as Elizabeth had never had a mother, Althea had never had a daughter.

Whatever her personal machinations were, she chose the day before Lady Salisbury's ball to further them. Her gilt carriage appeared on the square before dawn; rattling loudly over the cobbles while the street lights still smouldered and long before the night-soil men had set about collecting their wretched wage.

The sound of carriage doors being opened and closed, along with impatient outbursts of chatter echoed easily through the quiet square and woke Elizabeth, who up until that moment had been sleeping soundly in her bed. She inhaled deeply and groaned, stretching her bare arms up over her head and dropping them onto the pillow. Port Royal had been so quiet in mornings. Nothing but the sound of waves and seagulls to wake her. _Why must London be so bloody noisy all the time?_ she grumbled inwardly as she opened her eyes. When they met with a grey, semi-dark, and startlingly cold room she groaned and decided to go back to sleep. She slipped her naked, goose pimpled arms and shoulders beneath the white sheets, wriggling around as she turned over to curl her cold body around the warm one lying next to her.

Lazily, she reached out for him; expecting to squeeze her hand beneath his bicep and anchor it to the soft and lightly furred skin of his chest. He'd stir, mutter something about the temperature of her fingertips but would drowsily take her hand and hold it there – pressed beneath thick fingers that were ink stained from a late night spent signing paperwork. Graciously permitted, she'd crush her breasts and torso against the warm plane of his back, and bury her cold nose at the nape of his neck. Huddled comfortably together, they'd quickly find their way back to sleep.

She was disappointed then when instead of finding warm flesh, her reaching hand found an empty mattress and tousled, lukewarm sheets. When she opened her eyes, the emerging morning light only highlighted the rumpled bed linen and the soft indentation that his head had left on the pillow beside her.

Out of either plain disgust or concern for her health (Elizabeth couldn't quite tell which), Lord Beckett hadn't shared her bed in over a fortnight. He'd been leaving early and working late at the EITC offices every day – allowing her the time to rest and to prepare for her upcoming introduction at Lady Salisbury's. He spoke to her only when they happened to bump into each other, briefly inquiring about her health on the staircase or about her studies when they managed to meet for dinner – which was becoming rare. The distance between them had briefly been reconciled a few days ago when he'd brought her a gift of a gold harpsichord, but it was brief nonetheless and the separation continued into the long days that followed. Fatigued by sickness she'd welcomed being ignored at first, but when she felt her energy levels return to normal and the feelings of nausea begin to fade, she felt loneliness immediately take their place.

Last night however, and for whatever reason, he'd finally seen fit to end her seclusion.

* * *

Somewhere in the midst of a deep sleep, she'd been vaguely aware of the mattress shifting beneath his weight and of sheets being tentatively lifted as he slipped between them and settled beside her. It wasn't the comforting presence of warm flesh against her back that woke her; it was his hand, moving firmly over the place where her thigh became her hip – the place where the hem of her shift had risen to through restless slumber. The material had corrugated beneath his touch as he'd traced her ribs and slipped his cold hand beneath her elbow to cup her breast. He'd kneaded gently but persistently, palming the soft flesh and lightly tracing its curved outline with his fingers – waiting for her to wake up, waiting for a response.

He'd slowly circled her nipple with his thumb then lightly brushed across the hardened tip, teasing it through the thin fabric and eliciting a crumpling sigh from her, halfway between a breath and a moan. She'd arched her spine in response, thrusting her breast into his hand and her arse backwards where it met with his cock, hard and expectant.

She opened her eyes as his lips brushed a path up her neck, dragging slowly from nape to earlobe. "You can't be serious," she'd whispered sleepily, lowering her hand onto the one touching her breast. She shoved it away. "It's the middle of the night."

He pressed a kiss below her earlobe. "I'm always serious," he replied, his voice low and loud in the quiet room as he moved his hand to her shoulder and gently pushed her onto her back, rolling her to face him.

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and looked up at him. "Your office hours are unbearable," she grumped, throwing her hands behind her head onto the pillow. "Isn't it customary for a husband to seek the services of a whore to accommodate his desires when his wife is _trying_ to sleep?" She watched as Beckett's lips curled. She could just make out his features in the dim light; the peppering of hair across his jaw, the outline of his nose and his tepid eyes.

They observed her closely, as always. "You would rather I buried my prick inside some pox-infested whore," he stated incredulously.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. _No_. She wasn't sure which was more repulsive; the thought of Beckett rutting inside some halfpenny whore, or the thought of him choosing the whore over her. "I would rather not have a husband," she replied irritably.

Beckett narrowed his gaze. He rolled on top of her fluidly, "Oh I see," he whispered softly, knowingly. "You're cross because I've left you wanting for too long; you've been pining for my company and the pleasure it brings."

Elizabeth scoffed, but blushed all the same. _Arrogant bastard_. "No. I'm cross because you woke me up," she stropped, trying to wriggle free from beneath him.

Struggling was useless with limbs lazy from slumber. He snatched her wrists easily in one strong hand and drew his body up against hers, nestling his hips between her open thighs. She drew a sharp breath when she felt the tip of his cock breach their apex. "I see your spirits have returned," he noted in a whisper. He studied her face thoroughly, his gaze flicking awkwardly between her eyes and her lips. "…I'm glad," he added quietly as an afterthought.

Elizabeth looked up at him, puzzled not by the comment but by the way he'd said it.

When her hands stilled somewhat and she failed to respond, he pressed his lips against hers. His free hand smoothed upwards, along her thigh and beneath her shift, stilling beneath her breast. His thumb drew circles there while his mouth moved firmly against hers.

Without further encouragement, Elizabeth melted beneath him; she raised her head from the pillow to kiss him back – harder, hungrier. She found it strange how comfortable she'd become with spreading her legs for him, and almost frightening how much she required it now. She was carrying his child and still felt she needed more.

With no need to restrain her, he released her hands and was surprised when they instantly sought him out; one cupping the back of his neck, pulling him against her and the other delving between them, wrapping firmly around his cock.

He smirked against her lips. "My, aren't we eager?" he purred. "I thought you said you'd rather not have me."

She seized his lower lip between her teeth playfully. "I only say things like that to irritate you," she replied.

He watched with a puzzled look as she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him up onto his knees so she could remove her shift. She seized the fabric and tugged it over her head in one fluid motion, flinging it into the darkness and allowing the cool air in the room to lick her bare skin.

"I've missed irritating you," she admitted with a little shrug as she fell back into bed, her blonde hair swirling around her head.

Beckett grinned at her as she snatched his hips and pulled him back on top of her. "Oh have you now," he replied dryly. "Curious."

He sheathed himself inside her gradually, revelling in the way she sighed and arched up into him, clamping him between her thighs. He proceeded at a tortuous pace, thrusting slowly yet firmly.

* * *

Elizabeth leaned up on her arm and frowned at the empty space beside her. She placed her palm flat against her belly thoughtfully and sighed. It had been the perfect, opportune moment to tell him that she'd missed her courses, and yet somehow she'd foundered. Silence and slumber had followed sex. She just wasn't sure how he'd react to the news. He'd made it very clear on their wedding night that he had no intention of fathering an heir so soon, and had instructed her in preventing such an occurrence. She'd done exactly as she was asked and eagerly too. She'd had no intention of conceiving _his_ child. But things had changed since then. Hadn't they?

She was dragged from her thoughts when the noise from the square outside seemed to suddenly have invaded the house. Serving staff and footmen hurried from all corners of the previously silent house. When Elizabeth heard kitten heels spearing the stone steps outside, followed by the front door being hammered furiously, it was clear that her day was set to begin far earlier than usual.

Hurriedly, she scooped her shift up from the side of the bed and put it on, following it immediately with her dressing gown. She found the floorboards horribly cold when she swung her feet from the bed and made her way across the room to a window. After wiping away a thin layer of condensation, she peered out onto the square.

For the most part, it was deserted. During the day, the vast cobbled piazza was a hive of activity – with the constant flow of both black hackney and glamorous privately owned carriages picking up and dropping off residents, and weaving between promenading pedestrians, and street vendors crying their wares. At dawn it was usually clear and quiet; the scattered elm trees the only source of sound and movement – a harsh breeze rattling through the last of their bronze foliage. It was then that Elizabeth caught sight of the familiarly flamboyant gold and mahogany carriage waiting outside – complete with white ostrich plumes fluttering in the late October wind. She rolled her eyes. Althea thought the carriage the height of fashion and status – to Elizabeth it was just an embarrassing display of wealth.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and grumbled. Rising before dawn appeared to be a Beckett family trait. "Shit," she muttered. "What is _she_ doing here?"

Downstairs in the foyer, the scullery maids and footmen that were already out of bed were unsuccessfully attempting to waylay her. The sound of their interception echoed through the hall and up the stairs, penetrating the doors to Elizabeth's bedchamber.

The assumption of the various serving staff gathered downstairs was that Althea had arrived to visit her son. "I'm sorry madam, his Lordship departed some time ago," someone said.

Althea scoffed. "Well then, it's just as well I didn't come here to see _him_, isn't it?" she replied haughtily, and very loudly – she clearly had no intention of keeping her voice lowered for the benefit of those still fast asleep. "I'm here to see my _daughter in law_. I'd be grateful if you could inform her of my arrival."

Elizabeth groaned; she hated the idea of being legally bound to Althea Beckett.

Hester, a young woman who had recently been installed as Elizabeth's lady's maid spoke up. Elizabeth knew it was her because she recognised her soft country twang. Hester had recently arrived from the west country. "Beg your pardon ma'am, but Lady Beckett hasn't risen yet," she protested valiantly. "Her fire hasn't even been lit yet – it's still far too early for tha'."

"I'm well aware of the hour you stupid, _stupid_ girl," Althea snapped.

There followed the unmistakeable hollow thump-thump of heels moving forcefully up the stairs.

Hester chased her up the staircase. "Yer grace, please!" she called after her. "She'll be fast asleep!"

Elizabeth rushed to her vanity. Her hair resembled an unkempt hay bale, and her skin still looked sallow after weeks spent inside, though it had developed a healthy pink flush for her overnight exertions. She quickly picked at and patted her tangled hair and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and although she had looked better (and yet had still managed to catch Althea's scrutinizing hazel gaze) at least she was moderately dressed and not still sleeping nude beneath the sheets with her husband's leavings still slick between her thighs.

She straightened when the doors flung open and Althea charged inside, followed by an apologetic Hester.

"I'm so sorry yer Ladyship! I said you wouldn't 'av risen yet, but she was very insistant."

Bundled in sweeping layers of fox fur-lined grey velvet, Althea scanned the room – turning her head to and fro in a way that made her peppered brown wig of curls shudder. When she noticed Elizabeth's pale outline standing sheepishly in the corner she clasped her gloved hands together, fell back on her heels and let out a short breath.

"Oh good you're up," she said.

Elizabeth nodded her head politely. "Althea," she replied with a short curtsey.

Althea's eyes flashed critically over Elizabeth's creased shift and dressing gown. "…but not dressed. Oh." she added disappointingly.

Elizabeth kept any rude comments to herself, there were a lot threatening to burst forth. "A pleasure to see you, as always," she sighed, forcing a smile across her lips. "…and so early too."

Althea nodded. "Well I've _always_ been a _firm_ believer in rising early. Only the elderly, infirm and women caught 'in the family way' should sleep late," she drawled, pinching the fingertips of her gloves in an effort to remove them. "When _I_ was your age I made a habit of being at my toilette by seven every day. _Five_ during the summer," she said, placing the fine kid gloves neatly on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed.

She strolled over to the large window and fiercely ripped open the damask drapes. Pale morning light flooded the room.

Elizabeth winced. "Oh, really."

"Yes. I always admired the way my skin looked in the early morning light," Althea continued thoughtfully, watching her reflection in the window as she stroked the weathered slope of her cheek with her fingers. Her lips twisted disagreeably at what she saw.

Elizabeth felt a change of subject necessary. "No Penelope today?" she asked, noticing the lack of dog writhing beneath her mother-in-law's arm.

Althea waved her hand dismissively. "No. Good heavens, it's _far_ too early for her to be up and about!" she said as she fussed with the parted drapes. She frowned. "…Who chose this fabric? The colour's a bit tired, don't you think? And the pattern… more suited to a parlour than a bedroom, I should think."

Elizabeth watched, bewildered, as Althea smoothed and arranged each fold and pleat the bunched fabric created until she satisfied that however hideous the fabric, at least they were tidy. After briefly stepping back to admire her work, she dusted her hands and set to her next task.

"Tea I think," she announced, turning suddenly to Hester who was still hovering hopelessly in the doorway and absently fiddling with the hem of her apron. When she didn't move right away, Althea groaned and clapped her hands. "Well don't just stand there girl! Chop chop!"

Hester blinked. "Oh! Yes 'course! Sorry ma'am," she apologised, as she stumbled towards the door.

Althea tutted and shouted after her. "And get someone up here to light this damned fire, it's freezing!"

"Certainly," Hester replied, catching Elizabeth's apologetic look as she left.

When she'd gone, Althea pulled a face. "Common as muck, that girl," she sneered, chuckling cruelly. "Ghastly accent – I've never heard anything quite like it!"

Elizabeth let out a weary sigh and squeezed the bridge of her nose. She'd spent less than ten minutes in Althea's company and she could already feel her patience beginning to strain. "Forgive me for speaking plainly, Althea, but may I ask the reason for your visit?" she asked, as firmly as she dared. "You sent no word of your impending arrival, and I'm certain that we made no arrangement."

Althea's gaze sharpened noticeably. "I think you'll find, Elizabeth, that a mother needs no invitation to visit the home of her son."

Elizabeth glared back at her. "I didn't mean to offend," she replied. "Only, a warning might have been polite – I mean of course for me to receive you better," she added hastily, gesturing to her undressed state.

Althea's painted lips curled shrewdly. "Quite," she said, raising one of her pencilled eyebrows.

When Althea slowly lowered herself onto the chaise longue, Elizabeth took the opportunity to sit down herself. She crossed the room and settled into the small but comfortable blue easy chair opposite the chaise longue. When she lifted her cold feet and moved to tuck them beneath the warmth of her thighs and dressing gown, she was reprimanded by Althea who shook her head and tutted loudly until Elizabeth lowered them back onto the ice cold floor defeated.

"Now then, my dear. Tomorrow night is Lady Salisbury's soirée," Althea began, "…and, well I imagine you haven't decided on a gown to wear yet. Anticipating this, I have come here to offer _my_ services. And trust me, I have _impeccable_ taste," she announced proudly, untying her velvet travelling cloak and allowing it to slip from her shoulders.

Elizabeth glared suddenly at the gown lurking beneath. It wasn't so much the colour – an arguably quite pretty shade of purple – but the fact that it was covered in lace frills, trims, bows and ruffles to the extent that she looked as if Althea had been attacked by a vengeful haberdasher. She smiled politely. "That's… very kind of you, but actually I've already chosen a gown."

Althea looked surprised. "Oh," she replied, offended almost. "Well, may I see it?"

Elizabeth stood up and walked through a small side door into her dressing room where several large chests, an armoire and a tall cabinet stored her collection of clothes.

The dress she'd chosen had been one her favourites back in Port Royal. The cream coloured French robe, with gold embroidery and a bronze-buttoned bodice had been a gift from her father to replace the gown that had been ruined when she fell from the battlements during celebrations to commemorate James' promotion to Commodore. She'd survived the fall thanks to Jack, but the gown unfortunately hadn't – so her father had replaced it with a much nicer one. It was a little outdated now of course, yes, but still just as pretty as it had been.

As she removed the folded gown from the depths of a large chest and fingered the smooth, delicately woven fabric her stomach churned uncomfortably as she thought of her father.

Althea narrowed her eyes and tutted disapprovingly when Elizabeth emerged with the gown. "No," she said.

Elizabeth huffed. "But what's wrong with it?" she demanded, looking down at it lying limply across her arms.

"Everything!" Althea snorted, pursing her lips snobbishly. "The colour is wrong, the fabric is too plain, the fact that it's a day dress and not an evening dress and although it may have adequately adorned a Governor's daughter, it's hardly fitting for _Lady_ Beckett."

Elizabeth sighed as she laid the dress on her unmade bed.

Althea shook her head despairingly. "I mean, which would you rather look like, Elizabeth? A Marquise or a Milkmaid? If you wear _that_ frock, you'll look like the latter," she said as she rose from her seat. She waved her fingers. "Come along, let's see if there's not something better hiding in that room there."

With an hour, Althea had ransacked the small dressing room and created a large multi-hued funeral pyre of satin and lace on the bedroom floor. Nothing seemed to live up to her high expectations. If the gown was the right style, it was made of the wrong fabric. If was the right sort of fabric, then it was the wrong shade. It was either too plain or too splendid. Some gowns made the pyre without even a glance; a brief brush of her aged hand across the length of the skirt was enough for Althea to decide that she didn't like it. Soon, the coffers and trunks were all but empty except for the sprigs of dried lavender dropped inside to keep satin scoffing moths at bay.

"Well then, I can see no other option," Althea declared as they sat sipping tea, "we'll have to make a trip to the Strand."

Elizabeth yawned into her cup.

"Close your mouth when you yawn, dear."

Nine o'clock found them within the walls of the finest and most fashionable couturier's on the Strand. Monsieur Lemoine had clothed both Queens and Contessa, Althea had assured Elizabeth as the carriage pulled up outside the large sash windows fronting the store, and his designs were much sought after by those who had the money to pay for them. Rows of rolls of pattered silks and satins decorated the wooden innards of the store, along with piles of intricate Italian lace, shoes, fans, hats and feathers and anything else that might adorn a fashionable lady. Without the time to make a new gown from scratch, Elizabeth was whisked away to try a ready-made piece. She was stitched into sack-backs and pulled into polonaises until her ribs hurt; all the while Althea reclined on a chaise looking at fabric samples and silk fans, lifting her head only to shake it. But finally, a dress was settled upon.

When Elizabeth appeared in an elegant looking sack-back of apricot satin, Althea was silent.

It was a little too loose and of a rather vintage style, but Elizabeth had decided that she liked it. She waited wearily as Althea frowned and tapped her chin; studying everything from the fly-lace and pearl trim, to the gold trim on the embroidered stomacher. Eventually, she sat back in her seat and hummed.

"Yes," she said. "I think it will do."

Monsieur Limoine's assistant was relieved. "Excellent," she sighed, flinging her tape measure around her shoulders like a shawl. "Thank goodness."

"Of course it's far too loose," Althea insisted with a shrug. "It'll _have_ to be taken in. We want to _highlight_ my daughter-in-law's assets not hide them. And I'm not sure about that stomacher; it's missing something," she added. "Can't you add some jewels to it or something? A little crystal to make it sparkle?"

The assistant drew in a deep breath and placed her hands on her narrow hips. "Of course, madam," she replied genially.

Elizabeth stood in silence, pins digging into her shoulders and ribs.

Althea nodded. "Very good," she said. "Of course we'll need shoes and a fan to match… I assume you have something appropriate?"

"Yes madam," she replied. "And how will madam be paying today?"

Althea narrowed her eyes. "Well on credit of course," she answered, affronted.

The assistant pulled a face. "Credit madam?"

"Why yes!" Althea said. "Look, I'm _sure_ your master's establishment has the misfortune of attracting the occasional chatelaine eager to spend wages earned the night before, but ladies of quality do _not_ pay with nor carry petty cash!"

The poor assistant bit her lip. "Of course madam, forgive me," she apologised. "I'll just go and have a look for some accessories."

Althea watched as the assistant eagerly hurried away. She chuckled. "'How will I be paying?' The nerve!"

Elizabeth glared at her. "That was unnecessary," she remarked, turning to a nearby mirror to study her reflection.

Althea sighed. "Oh hush, they _have_ to learn," she said. "Anyway, how is my son?"

"I hardly know. He's been very busy," Elizabeth replied, smoothing her hands across the bodice and impaling her finger on a pin in the process. "Ouch!" she gasped, sucking the pricked fingertip into her mouth.

"I assume you're both finding the time for… oh, how can I put this delicately?" she said. She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice substantially. "_Faire l'amour_?"

Elizabeth spun around and stared at her, crimson painting her pale cheeks. She blinked several times. "What?"

Althea groaned. "Oh dear, I see Cutler hasn't been testing your French."

"I understood perfectly what you said, Althea," Elizabeth scoffed, "I'm just shocked that you think it's any of your business."

Althea sent her a funny look. "But it _is_ my business, my dear," she replied, standing up. "My son may act as if his _only_ obligation in life is to the Company and the welfare of our realm overseas, but I'm more than certain that he's well aware of his responsibilities at home. His title requires an heir to inherit it."

Elizabeth frowned at her. "Again, I fail to see why that's any of your business."

Althea stopped in front of her and smiled sourly. "A year of marriage, and still nothing to show for it?" she observed. "I wouldn't be a good mother if I didn't worry why that might be."

Elizabeth scowled back at her. For a brief moment she thought about telling her the truth, but instead, she gritted her teeth and swallowed her secret. "Thank you for your concern," she replied as politely as she could. "But again, it's none of your business."

* * *

_Yeah... Don't ask._


	19. Lesson

_The usual warnings apply. Blah, blah, blah. I didn't realise just how much I missed writing this, and I'm going to blame the sudden surge of inspiration on watching POTC the other day for the first time in a loooong time. Much, much love to all who are still with me. Apologies for the epic hiatus!_

* * *

**The Fortunate Mistress Part XIX - 'Lesson'**

**~:~**

"This…?" Beckett questions as one of his ink-stained fingertips slowly traces an invisible line down her throat; beginning under her chin and ending in the hollow at its base.

"…Quel est ce nom?" he asks in a whisper, sharpening his gaze.

Elizabeth can feel his breath crawling across her clavicles as she clenches her eyes shut and attempts to bring forth the correct answer from the back of her mind. It pops into her head when she feels his hand close around her throat. "La gorge?" she answers uncertainly.

His lips curl and he hums his approval. "Very good."

Her reward for a correct response is an open mouthed kiss to the side of her neck, with both teeth and tongue.

Elizabeth shudders and sighs. The sound released is somewhere between relief and pleasure.

* * *

She'd eaten dinner alone that evening. The warm plate of roast lamb and stewed vegetables had been a welcome end to a day spent as Lady Althea's doll. She hardly noticed nor cared that she sat alone at the large mahogany dining table; she had assumed as usual that Beckett had been held hostage by a desk full of customs receipts. Feeling tired, she'd resolved to get an early night, and as soon as she'd cleared her plate she took a book from the library and gave orders to Hester that she should not be disturbed.

Her plans were scuppered however when she entered her room to find her bed already occupied by a foreign object. Resting on the satin coverlet at the foot of the bed was something which didn't belong. Long, thin and beetle black with a leathery head, she almost mistook it for a Coluber; a harmless black snake that had laid its eggs in the shrubs surrounding the Governors House in Port Royal. Finding one furled in the laundry had not been uncommon.

She snatched it from the bed and examined it. "Hester?" she called over her shoulder, balancing it on her fingertips. "What's this?"

Hester, who was the middle of closing the curtains, joined her obediently. "Why, it's a riding crop my lady," she said.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I _know_ what it is," she sighed irritably, "what I'd like to know is why it's on my bed."

Hester shrugged. "Well, I couldn't say," she replied innocently, shaking her head. "Would you like for me to find its rightful home?"

On second inspection, Elizabeth found a folded piece of parchment in the place where the crop had been lying. "That won't be necessary," she replied as she picked it up and unfolded it. She edged into the light of a nearby candelabra to read it (and to escape Hester's prying eyes).

_'Your presence is required urgently. Bring the crop.'_

–_B_

Elizabeth scrunched the letter into a ball and hurled it onto the fire. The flames swallowed it quickly. She turned to face Hester. "Perhaps my husband knows where it belongs," she said.

Hester nodded. "I think he's retired for the night. Would you like for me to take it to him, my lady?" she asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Thank you, Hester," she replied, striding towards the door, crop in hand, "but I think I can manage."

Lord Beckett's room was three doors along the corridor; nestled comfortably between the library and his office. It was a place Elizabeth rarely visited. It seemed that her husband didn't like to share in company of others within his inner sanctum. The only person she ever saw passing through the large gilt doors was his dog of a manservant, Mercer – until now.

Elizabeth raised the crop and tapped firmly on the door three times.

"Enter," said a voice from inside.

She grabbed the handles, turned them, and then pushed.

If the rest of the house was magnificent, then Lord Beckett's bed chamber was its masterpiece. With its walls of champagne coloured damask, gold sconces and scarlet drapery, it was a room to rival a royal bedchamber. The ceiling was hand painted; with nymphs and putto dancing from cloud to cloud around the ceiling rose and vast chandelier. The bed was enormous, and inviting; dressed in crimson and concealed by curtains of a similar shade. A small vanity in the corner held a porcelain wash bowl and jug. A powdered wig rested nearby on a stand.

She found her husband reclining in chair beside the fireplace and in a state of undress; his coat, waistcoat and necktie having been folded neatly over a screen in the far corner. He sat there in just his shirt and breeches, observing her quietly over a glass of cognac.

Elizabeth was first to break the silence. "I wasn't aware that you'd returned," she said, hovering in the middle of the room.

"Actually, I returned before you did," Beckett replied, running a hand through his cropped brown hair. He took a sip from his glass.

Elizabeth was surprised. "Oh."

He eyed her firmly. "How's my mother?" he asked as he placed his glass on a small table beside his chair.

"…exasperating," she answered with a long sigh.

Beckett smirked.

He stood up and took his near-empty glass over to a small cabinet that was filled with various aperitifs. He removed a deep ochre coloured bottle, removed the cork and filled his glass. The sound of the liquid glugging from the bottle and swirling in the glass was soothing.

"I found _this_ on my bed," Elizabeth said, sauntering towards him and waving the crop. "Any reason why?"

Beckett hesitated as he returned the cork to the bottle. He glanced over his shoulder. "Your French vocabulary leaves much to be desired," he explained as he put the bottle down and strolled to meet her in the middle of the room. "Something we must urgently remedy."

He offered her his glass.

Elizabeth shook her head, busying her hands with the crop, bending and flexing it. "No, thank you."

Beckett studied her momentarily and then took a hefty sip himself.

She groaned. "I don't see why learning French is so important."

"You don't," he repeated flatly.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Well, for a start we live in _England_, not France," she replied, distractedly swatting her skirts with the crop. She liked the sound that it made each time it hit the satin.

Beckett frowned. "French is the language of diplomacy, and you'll find a simple understanding of the language necessary if you are to circumnavigate the parlours of _le bon ton_," he explained, his tongue rolling over the French words lithely.

"Dull, dull, dull," Elizabeth complained childishly. "I was never complimented for my concentration during French lessons."

Beckett took the crop from her grasp.

"Ah. Then we must find a way to make them more interesting for you," he said with a small smirk.

* * *

Elizabeth waits patiently as Lord Beckett devises his next question; watching his pale eyes scan her bare torso for vocabulary to test.

They'd begun with items of clothing. Gown, _robe_, shirt, _chemise_, breeches, _culotte_, underwear, _sous-vêtements_; discarding each one until they were left with only bare body parts to name.

Beckett's eyes eventually fall upon her shoulder. His finger strokes the faint freckles over its surface in a circular motion. "This," he asks, "quel est son nom?"

Elizabeth frowns and chews on her lip. She's not sure. "Um…" _Oh, what's that word again? The one which sounds vaguely like a name…_

"Quickly," he urges.

She pulls a face. "…I don't know."

Beckett removes his finger from her skin and tuts. "Disappointing," he replies, and the bed creaks as he lifts himself from her body and onto his knees. "On your front," he orders calmly.

Elizabeth groans as she rolls her body until her breasts are pressed into the coverlet and her spine curves like a cobra. "Is this really necessary?" she asks wearily, glancing over her shoulder as her husband retrieves the crop from amongst the sheets. It glistens in the candlelight like liquorice.

"Yes," he replies flatly. "I find that pupils learn far more from pain than they do from pleasure."

Elizabeth watches as he bends and twists the crop threateningly; testing its strength. "The stable master will be looking for that," she notes, catching his eye with a playful grin.

"Let him look," he replies striking her quickly across the back of her thighs; short and severe. The sound resonates in the quiet room.

_Crack!_

Elizabeth inhales sharply, arching her back. The pain's peak is intense, but ebbs to leave a warmth in its place. She exhales slowly and turns her head.

"You know, I think I'll keep hold of it," Beckett says thoughtfully, examining the crop briefly before dropping it onto the bed. "…and the answer, sweet, was _l'épaule_."

"Oh."

Reprimand over, Elizabeth resumes lying on her back. Beckett joins her, parting her flexed thighs and resting between them.

The test continues.

He lies on her stomach. "What might we call these, hm?" he asks, planting a kiss on the slope of each breast.

Elizabeth smirks. "Easy," she replies confidently. "Les seins."

"Et cela?" he continues, teasing a nipple between this teeth. He glances up at her expectantly as he releases it.

"Mamelle."

He's impressed, and as a reward descends the steps of her ribs with his lips.

Elizabeth sighs and swallows hard. _Ribs_. "Les côtes," she labels them, before he even asks.

"Excellent," he mumbles against her belly. His hands close around her hips, delving underneath her lower back to lift her abdomen off the bed and closer to his lips.

Elizabeth closes her eyes. There are a few words she's just _dying_ for him to test her on. They're the words she learnt before any others. She lifted them out of a banned French novel she had hiding beneath her bed many years ago. She memorised them quickly, and even though she isn't exactly sure how to ask the time in French, she'd have no trouble should she ever stumble into a brothel in Pigalle. If her base knowledge can hold out for just little while longer, she's sure he'll get there and reward her focus.

She moans as he kisses the curve of her hip bone.

"This," he quizzes, lifting his gaze and looking up her body.

She hesitates, but from somewhere recalls the correct word. "Hanche," she whispers.

"Yes," he says, squeezing the flesh of her arse in his hands.

Elizabeth bites her lip as she watches him hover between her thighs. She can feel her body humming with anticipation. She wants to reach out and grab his head, force his lips to where she wants them most, but she knows how much he likes to torture her and the rewards that follow if she lets him.

She almost breaks apart when he presses his lips to the concave space just above her pubis. "This," he whispers, lips curling up at her deliciously.

"Um…"

To her horror, her mind is suddenly as empty as a cave. Strangely, only one word screams out from the hollow. It's the wrong word. It's the word for a filled womb, not the womb itself. _Enciente_. _Enfant_. She aches. "…I don't know," she says.

Beckett clenches his jaw and sends her a sour look. "Roll," he commands impatiently.

Elizabeth does as she's told without complaint.

_Crack! Crack!_

She cries out as the crop stings her flesh; more pleasure in her voice than pain this time.

Beckett sighs loudly. "You're not supposed to enjoy it," he comments wryly. "That defeats the purpose."

Elizabeth looks back at him. "Sorry," she says with a little shrug.

He strikes her once more for luck and then orders her to lie on her back. She can actually feel the red stripes left behind now, crop's kiss.

Beckett pushes her thighs apart and kneels between them. She's hoping he'll continue where he left off and pouts when he doesn't. He lifts her thigh up against him and proceeds to untie her garter; tugging at the pale blue satin until it unravels in his fingertips. She watches closely as he rolls her stocking down her calf and then places a kiss to her kneecap.

"Le genou," Elizabeth says.

It earns her a nod. "Correct."

She feels a frisson of pleasure from within when he kisses the insides of her thighs and then lowers himself between them. _Thighs_. "Mes cuisses," she says, labelling them correctly.

When he dips his finger along her slit, she arches her back. "And finally, this?" he asks, wetting his lips as he glances up at her.

_At long last!_ "Chatte," she responds eagerly, pleading him with her eyes to allow her what she's been waiting for.

He smirks. "Yes, I thought you might have no problem remembering that one," he remarks sarcastically. "But can you use it in a sentence?" he asks.

Elizabeth scowls down at him. "Sucer mon chatte," she replies impatiently, annunciating sharply.

Beckett glares at her. She's forgotten something.

She sighs. "…s'il vous plaît," she adds quietly with a roll of her brown eyes.

"Manners don't cost a penny," he drawls before lowering his mouth onto her.

* * *

_More soon._


End file.
